


Skooma Cat

by Chairtastic



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Absurdism, Abusive Parents, Arranged Marriage, Attempt at Humor, Coming of Age, Healthy Relationships, Implied Relationships, Inappropriate Humor, M/M, Meridia is a gay icon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Plot Twists, Sheogorath is an awful parent, Time Travel, Trans Male Character, Trapped in the Past, Will be hella Gay though, cheese for everyone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-18
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-20 13:17:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 79
Words: 311,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13718520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chairtastic/pseuds/Chairtastic
Summary: Mohamara was just a tojay Khajiit in Skyrim trying to make a living. He went to Temple every Sundas, he was going to college and worked hard to stay afloat. Never drank, never did drugs, didn't even go to any wild parties. Frankly, his life was all work and no play. Unfortunately for him, a mad Daedra decided he needed a vacation--from the Twenty-First Age to the Fourth.





	1. Vacation!

It was always refreshing to go to Temple. Father Lovian had a way of sermonizing that lifted the spirits, like a bath but for the soul--rendered clean. Mohamara hardly ever watched the Imperial man while the sermons were said, though occasionally the lights of his rainbow-colored robes were enticing. The Temple always had dust in the air, and it was always fascinating to watch the particles dance around the rays of light that filled the temple from on high. They sometimes made shapes similar to Daedric letters or animals, but you had to be looking closely to see them.  
  
The potluck that happened after the final hymns were sung was the main draw for most people coming to Kilkreath--not the love of the Lady. It saddened Mohamara just a bit--the Lady would love them no matter why they came--but the people couldn’t feel her love at all because they didn’t love her back. Such was the case with Mohamara’s Orc friend, Yagraz. Biggest Orc he’d ever seen, of either gender, and she could throw a punch that knocked people out of their shoes. Her favorite thing to eat at the potluck was, of course, Mohamara’s fondue--made with imitation moon sugar.  
  
She derived some sick pleasure from watching others watch her eat the cheese-covered bread that Mohamara couldn’t understand. All she ended up doing was making a mess and having people leave her vicinity with red faces. So many people who came to Temple for the food seemed so angry with messy eating--Mohamara had to follow Yagraz around with napkins and insist she clean up regularly.  
  
At least the Orc woman actually sang the hymns in the post-potluck sermons. It wasn’t much, but in those moments could feel the light within Yagraz--and he knew the Lady was speaking to her in those times. Perhaps with a few years of going to Temple, she could feel the love as easily as Mohamara.  
  
“Will you come with me to Temple again next week?” he asked her when they left Kilkreath to wait at the air ferry station for a ship heading south--Yagraz to brag to her sisters in Dushnik Yal about all the fancy food she got to eat, and Mohamara to attend his evening courses at the community college in Whiterun. The Orc woman purposely messed up his hair with a two-handed head ruffle, much to Mohamara’s chagrin.  
  
“Eh, I dunno short-stuff. You going to make more of that fancy cheese?”   
  
Some of the passers-by in personal air-skiffs or walking on the elevated streets gave the two odd looks. It must have looked silly--an Orc woman in a Companions leather jacket, but otherwise dressed like a punk and sporting a mohawk tormenting a Khajiit literally half her size, who had a more hipster look. It wouldn’t surprise Mohamara if someone assumed she was bullying him--some righteous people had tried to intervene before.  
  
“Ack, leggo! I always make fondue for Temple--it’s the only time I can afford eidar cheese.” And it was something he knew Yagraz loved. He hoped that the love for the food would open her up to the love of the Lady. Malacath had made Yagraz strong, but he loved nobody--not even himself.  
  
“Well fine--I’ll come by next week for Temple. But only _if_ you let me teach you how to throw a punch, hmm?”   
  
Mohamara glared up at her through the Orc’s hands and his own hair, not amused at all. “And give you a reason to hit me--I’m not stupid.”   
  
Yagraz shrugged and smirked to herself, then let the short cat go. He’d gotten used to fighting against her grip, so the sudden release sent him stumbling a bit.  
  
“Please, you knowing how to fight or not, I couldn’t hit ya--you’d break like glass.” She took a seat on the ferry stop, which Mohamara did as well once he got up. The station, as was the case for air ferry stations, sported a vaguely Dwemer design. Markarth had changed a lot of the public utilities to their Dwemer-revival style once the stone city became the capital of Skyrim. Mohamara hadn’t been there to see the change, but he’d heard from his elf professors about the cultural dominance Markarth had developed over the generations.  
  
More than one such elven professor had outright banned slates from their lecture halls because they hated how students could fact-check their lectures in real time. If they’d just stop lying, the cat postulated, there wouldn’t be a problem. And if they didn’t know the latest material, what were they doing teaching? Mohamara believed it had to do with the inclination of elven scholars to develop a superiority complex.  
  
“That should be the one,” Yagraz pointed out, jarring the Khajiit out of his musings. The Dwemer-bronze airship, held aloft by a metal plated air envelope and driven forward by four sets of propellers, took a few minutes to line up with the station so passengers could load on and disembark. The tedious process of standing in line while their passes were scanned to allow them passage was only made better by the rain finally clearing up. And because the weather had improved, the ferry opened up the windows on the covered deck, allowing for a pleasant breeze while it disconnected from the station and started southward.  
  
While Mohamara watched the tall buildings of Solitude fade away in the distance, he wondered if he’d ever be well off enough to afford living in Kilkreath. It was a hoity-toity neighborhood, lots of rich and fake-rich people. He only came there regularly because Kilkreath had the last temple to Meridia in Skyrim--Dawnguard had long since become a purely Stendarr venue. A degree in Mysticism didn’t promise a well-paying career, but if he could get into an enchantment internship he could possibly get in on the work for new wayshrines.  
  
“You always get so mopey after you go to Temple,” his friend chided and shoved his shoulder a bit. Mohamara almost fell off his perch looking out the window and pushed her back when he was stable again.  
  
“Well, in my religion going to Temple is supposed to be the highlight of the week. So, of course, I’m mopey. You always seem excited to go get the food.”  
  
The punk-fashioned Orc made a face and scoffed. This prompted Mohamara to thread his long ears through the gaps in his hood, pull it up, and go back to looking at the winged figure holding the faceted beacon aloft fade in the distance. “Because it’s the best food you can _get_ all week, short stuff.” Though he couldn’t see her due to the hood, he caught glimpses of her black mohawk moving around to indicate she was looking at him. “It’s _rich people_ food. Well, and that cheese stuff you make. But if singing songs and standing in a dusty temple while rich people glare at you all the time is the highlight of your week, you need to get better hobbies. Or a date. Or a date with better hobbies. Or take dating as a hobby.”  
  
“Yes, _thank you_ , but I will not be doing any of those things.” Mohamara’s ears went flat against his hood while his tail began to swish in irritation. “I’ve already got too much coursework--I have to appeal my last test in inter-planar wishes, there are two papers due in introduction to omens, and--“  
  
“And,” she purposefully cut him off and started to rub his head again. “If you don’t take a vacation or something, you’re going to work yourself to death. How about in a couple days you come with me to hear the shaman talk about Malacath? See, when we worship _our_ Daedra, it’s a fun time.”   
  
A soft but noticeable ‘harumph’ caught the Khajiit and Orc’s attention, prompting both to look at the source. An elderly Nord man, with a prominent amulet of Stendarr around his neck, glaring at them. The two friends teamed up to glare the old man down--Mohamara using the natural eyeshine produced by his face being shrouded by the hood, and Yagraz using her tusks in a threat display. It wasn’t long before the old man broke the staring contest, and the two went back to their original positions.  
  
“I’ll go if the appeal goes well, and if your sister doesn’t manhandle me again.”   
  
Yagraz had to force herself not to chuckle.  
  
“Hey, I don’t know how many tojay she’s met who like that, but _I_ don’t care for being carted around like a big doll.”  
  
“Then you just need to stop being such a shorty and grow to a reasonable size. Oh no, attack of the tail waps! Whatever shall I do?” The Orc played up her reaction to being bapped repeatedly by Mohamara’s tail when he started to thrash it about from annoyance. “Alright, I’ll tell her to leave you alone. Just stick by me, and she won’t get the chance to trap you in the realm of ‘cute kitty’.”  
  
When the temple was fully out of view Mohamara turned around and sat in the seat properly. To distract him on the way to the Dushnikh Yal station, he pulled his slate out and clipped on the earrings before browsing for a song.  
  
The time for Yagraz to leave came soon. After exchanging a promise to join her for attending a sermon about Malacath, she left with the vast majority of the ferry’s passengers. Dushnikh Yal was a popular transfer stop, allowing people to swap to a ferry heading further east to Eastmarch, or west to the Reach. Mohamara stayed on the ferry as it started the route back to Whiterun and kept to himself while listening to music.  
  
Until he got a call from a number he didn’t know. The number vanished almost instantly, as his cipher put a name to the caller: CHEESE4EVERY1. Mohamara knew no one with that name and moved the slider to the red button, declining the call. But instead the call interface popped up over his music, and the caller’s orange and purple icon started to blink in time with their words.  
  
“Hello! How are ya?” A voice with an accent he couldn’t quite place started off quickly. It was a man’s, and seemed to be slightly withered with age but still energetic.  
  
“Um, who--” Mohamara started before he decided not to bother and attempted to end the call. But the button to do so never seemed to register.  
  
“Am I? Well, that’s been a topic of debate for a while now actually. But you and I already know each other, lad.” The voice went soft and ever so slightly menacing for the last few words. “I just came by to let you know: It’s all sorted! I heard you need a vacation, so I decided to take you along with me on mine! We can talk, hang out, eat some clouds together. I’ll be swinging by in a second, so be ready to go.” The man spoke with such energy and swiftness that Mohamara wasn’t able to get a word in edgewise before the call was ended. He had all of a second to blink before someone sat down uncomfortably close to him on the bench.  
  
It was a Nordic man, paler than any he’d ever seen, with white hair and milky eyes. He wore a bizarre suit that seemed… fleshy, with deep patterns on a base of purple and orange fabrics split in half so he had two limbs of each color. “How ya doing, my boy? Meri-pants been treating you well? She’s so temperamental with her mortals I half expected you to be a scorch mark when I got around to meeting ya.” The Nord man spoke with the voice from the call, and this combined with his sudden appearance made Mohamara jump and almost drop his slate.  
  
“Who in the Ashpit are you?”   
  
The man squinted a bit at Mohamara’s outraged tone, and a palpable sense of dread crept over the short Khajiit.   
  
“Um, who are you… sir?”  
  
That got the stranger to break out into a wide grin. “That’s a good lad, minding your betters. And bettering your mind--a college boy I see.” Somehow Mohamara’s wallet had appeared in the man’s hand, and after a hasty check of his jeans pockets the Khajiit confirmed it was definitely his. The stranger flipped it open and began to look through the credit slabs and identification cards. “Not on the cheer squad? Ah well, still time for that. Can’t go wasting all that cute on books. Or screens, as the young people do.”  
  
“Um. Sir, please, give that--back?” Mohamara tried to snatch the wallet back from the Nord and found his hand gripped so tightly by the human that the pain took a second to register. The Nord man’s expression didn’t change, he just held Mohamara’s hand away from the wallet while it was examined further.  
  
“Oh, blood type blue. Must make you popular with vampires, eh lad? But I suppose you being with Meri-pants means you wouldn’t want to be popular with vampires. Though they’d _certainly_ want you to be popular with them!” He leaned in to whisper to Mohamara, who held his ears flat against his skull and tried not to think about how he could feel the two bones in his forearm grinding against one another. “Vampires are strange like that.”  
  
“Yes--sir, please….” Mohamara’s arm was released, and once free he decided the insane Nord could _keep_ the damn wallet and he tried to run. Tried being the key word there. He found himself held fast by his tail--the Nord not holding so tightly as he had the Khajiit’s arm, but still strong enough to keep Mohamara from escaping.  
  
“Now, now, don’t be like that. This is a fun time! Vacation time!”   
  
With a powerful yank, the Khajiit was pulled back to the seat and made to sit. The wallet vanished from the man’s hand, though Mohamara was too afraid to go looking for it. He had started to piece together who the man was--the distinctive clothes, weird accent, and powers that would require significant effort for a mage all painted a bleak picture.   
  
“Look at you, shaking like a leaf. Understandable, really. Meri-pants doesn’t really teach her mortals to be able to _work_ with Daedra, ya know? Makes for great surprises when they end up using the wrong fork at dinner and need to be eviscerated, eh?”  
  
Numb, the Khajiit nodded and looked around for the other passengers. None of them even seemed to realize what was happening. Or if they had, they were ignoring the situation entirely.  
  
“Well, go on isn’t there something you should be saying since I’m taking you along on my vacation? Did your tongue stop working? Would you like a replacement?” Again, the madman edged onto a low, dangerous tone towards the end.   
  
Mohamara made a low whine in his throat and shook his head no, but still didn’t answer. The man was clearly a Daedra, and words could become dangerous with Daedra. Silence, also, could be dangerous but he hoped that silence would just bore the Daedra into leaving.   
  
“How ungrateful! And I spent all these twelve seconds putting together this little get-together.” The Daedra appearing as a Nord sighed, longsuffering. “Oh, I didn’t expect to get into this little family dynamic right off. Exciting progress!”  
  
The Daedra shifted emotional states so rapidly that Mohamara had to guess him to be a servant of the Mad God, Sanguine, or possibly Clavicus Vile. As he put the thought together, the Daedra seemed to laugh as if he’d heard the best joke in recorded history.  
  
“Me? Serving old Clavicle? You mortals are too spoiled by how fun he is now. None of you even remember the rambunctious scamp he was oh… I think five thousand years ago? Time is so hard to keep track of--it keeps changing! And you mortals keep breaking Time anyway, so what’s the point?” While Mohamara parsed that the Daedra could _read his mind_ , the Daedra screwed his brow up in thought. “Well, I guess Alduin was the point? But he’s not around anymore, so!” The Daedra released Mohamara’s tail, and the Khajiit was about to make an attempt to escape when instead he found the Daedra’s arm slung across his narrow shoulders and brought in for a side hug. “I think it’s been made clear that you have _no idea_ who I am, and I must say I’m rather insulted.” Slowly the arm holding Mohamara began to squeeze like it had with his wrist earlier, only the crushing pain was gradual rather than sudden. “Here, this should clear things up.”  
  
A bill of paper money was held in front of Mohamara’s eyes. Orange and purple, like the man’s clothes, with an upside-down portrait of the man in the middle surrounded by Daerdric script. The concept of Daedra having _money_ was lost on him when Mohamara read the name atop the portrait.  
  
‘Sheogorath’.  
  
“Oh.” Mohamara broke his silence, trying to make himself as small as possible when he realized exactly _who_ had him in a side hug and was lowkey attempting to crush him.  
  
“See that?” Sheogorath’s voice was soft, almost pleasant. Almost. “That moment of dawning realization is one of the best things you can do with a mortal. Makes dealing with all the boring people so worth it.”  
  
While he couldn’t get away, Mohamara could still move his arms a bit, so he reached up to his shirt and grabbed the amulet of Meridia underneath. A simple silver plated chain holding a faceted orb that shone from within with Meridia’s light. Once he got a hold of it, Mohamara began to desperately pray for help. The odds were low that the Lady would deign to save one mortal that the Lord of Madness had ensnared, but still there.  
  
Sheogorath found the whole thing hilarious and wiped a laughter tear from his eye before speaking again. “Oh, praying for Meri-pants to save you? Best joke I’ve heard in ages. Literally. Ages. And thank you for capitalizing my title there, that’s far more respectful.” The crushing stopped, but Sheogorath’s grip did not relax. “Relax, mortal. I’m not going to be killing you. Yet.” Again came the low tone with an edge of menace. “I’m just going to put you somewhere where you can relax, have some fun, maybe solve some problems.”  
  
Sheogorath made a sweeping motion with his arm before he screwed his face up in consideration. “Wait,” he started, unsure. “I think I used the wrong word there. It’s related to ‘somewhere’, but the wrong suffix.”   
  
Mohamara didn’t stop praying even though, as Sheogorath kept talking, the inner light from the amulet signifying his connection to the Lady began to dim until it was a colorless crystal bauble.   
  
“Anyway, I’ve been meaning to have this conversation with you for a while. But I haven’t had the free time to come and visit--Uncle Jyggalag isn’t going to needle himself, is he?!”  
  
“You… honor me with your presence, Lord.” His Lady was clearly in no position to help, even if she was so inclined. So Mohamara resorted to talking, in the hopes he could stay alive long enough for that to change.  
  
“I do, don’t I? Which is odd, given how disrespectful, ungrateful, and utterly _boring_ you’ve been with me isn’t it?” With each accusation, Sheogorath squeezed slightly tighter, until the poor Khajiit’s spine started to pop as if it were being stretched. “Oh, you make music! Delightful.”   
  
The other passengers on the ferry were gone, Mohamara realized. Where they had been were now piles of empty clothing, holding the shape of people as if they’d merely gone invisible.   
  
“But, I suppose that the point of this vacation is to fix these… deficiencies. I mean, you’re what, twenty or so years old, and all you’ve done is work, work, work, _work_ , and heap praise on old Meri-pants.” Sheogorath paused, considering, and took his arm off of the Khajiit to scratch under his bearded chin.  
  
“You sound like my friend, sir.”  
  
“I’m not sure how to take that. Comparison to a mortal is usually so insulting, but that Yagraz girl is just so _endearingly_ detached from reality. Hmm. I’ll decide to be neutral about it this time.”   
  
It took a moment for Mohamara to realize he was free before the Khajiit hastily turned, climbed out the window of the ferry, and jumped.  
  
He realized how stupid this was the literal second he saw the ground hundreds of feet below him.  
  
“Ha! I like the execution, but I doubt you’ll like the end result.” Sheogorath’s voice spoke to him even as the ferry grew distant from the force of gravity. The wind whipping through Mohamara’s ears did nothing to impede the Daedric Prince’s words, which made Mohamara think they came from his mind. “An astute observation. Betcha wishing you had that kind of clarity about ten seconds ago?”  
  
He should be screaming, Mohamara realized. It would be the natural thing to do. But knowing that at least Sheogorath had found him interesting enough to let die of natural causes was a relief. “Yeah, would’ve been nice.” As he fell, he noticed some… peculiarities of the land below. It was _rocky_ , which he only really saw in the Reach. And covered in grass, which he’d only ever seen in the lawns of rich people. Perhaps it was Sheogoath’s influence, driving him to hallucinate. “At least the fall won’t kill me.”  
  
“Aye, it’d be the right nasty splat at the end. Had that happen to me once, still stung a little. But! Meri-pants would be right miffed if I let you die too early, so I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you alive. Now, don’t let that get ya too hopeful, I’m still a bit sore about how ungrateful you’ve been. So I’m going to handle this… my way.”  
  
Deep below Mohamara, a Dunmer netch herder was learning an incredibly valuable lesson: Netch herding in Skyrim was an awful idea. As everything in Skyrim was fast and deadly enough to grab onto them and pull them out of the sky. The sheer degree of harassment the average netch got made its health deteriorate from stress alone.  
  
There was also the fact that Skyrim’s cold climate wasn’t good for netches. And neither were Khajiit that randomly fell from the sky, pulverized betty netches on impact and ended up being bounced by the impact to land farther away than logic dictated should have been possible. The Khajiit falling onto his last betty wasn’t the last of the poor netch herder’s problems, as a pack of sabre cats had taken an interest in the distress of his netches. They didn’t last long.  
  
After bouncing away from his netch landing pad Mohamara found himself lying on his side, on a hill, unable to move, and in mild pain from the multiple impacts with the ground. To top it all off, he hadn’t even escaped Sheogorath. The Mad God was crouched in front of him, holding his finger close enough to Mohamara’s nose that he could no longer see it, but too far away to feel it.  
  
“I’m not touching you,” he would sing-song every minute or so while moving his hand and pointed finger around the Khajiit’s face. “Not touchin’ ya at all, lad.”   
  
All Mohamara could do was scream internally as the infernal Daedra played with the limits of his vision while he couldn’t move.   
  
“Now, let’s have a good look at you while I wait for my luggage to fall off the ferry.”  
  
The Khajiit found himself in an all too familiar situation of being moved around like a doll while he was listless, unable to fight back. It was like every single time he interacted with Yagraz’ sisters. “Well, you definitely got these lanky limbs from me. But you’re just so cute --I could pinch your head off and make it into a doll.”   
  
Mohamara found himself holding his breath while the Mad God examined him like a new toy, speaking nonsensical things.   
  
“Oh, you got those fluffy toe things from your mother! Those were just adorable.” At some point, Sheogorath had deigned to remove the Khajiit’s shoes for a look at his feet--for reasons said Khajiit refused to ponder. “Okay, I’ve seen enough to be able to tell you apart from other mortals. For a while. Since you want to go off on adventure on your own, I’ll go take my vacation alone. Try not to get eaten alive before the paralysis wears off.”  
  
And like that, he was alone again. Mohamara didn’t put much stock into much of what Sheogorath had said--it was likely purposefully misleading or designed to drive him mad if he thought about it too much. After all, only the Lady was kind enough to make her intentions and desires known plainly to mortals. Most other Daedra worshippers had to speculate as to what their gods wanted.  
  
Over time, the paralysis effect from the netch’s innards began to wear off. But during the wait, Mohamara had no choice but to look at the scenery. By how far away the mountains to the south were, he should have been lying in a Rorikstead suburb. Instead, there were plains. The only plains he’d seen were the lands set aside for the native giants to herd mammoths on--both were critically endangered species.  
  
His tail was the first thing that became able to move, and it began to weakly flick about from his lingering irritation. That all stopped when his large ears picked up ever-so-soft footsteps approaching. Way too heavy to be a person. Too light to be a wild horse. A rumbling growl Mohamara could feel rattle his bones sounded from the approaching animal. He’d never heard the sound before, but it awoke in him the need to be quiet and not move. The paralysis helped him stay still, and play dead from the approaching animal. All he could do was hope it wasn’t a scavenger.  
  
Suddenly a pain in his tail shot up his spine, along with a sickening crunch. Mohamara had broken his thigh bone as a teenager, and the pain he experienced from his tail trumped that by several magnitudes of order. Even though he couldn’t move his jaw yet, he cried out from the sharp agony. Actual crying occurred as well. These seemed to startle whatever creature had snuck up on him and sent it bounding off.  
  
Every time his tail moved, it produced a new stabbing pain, so he stopped moving it. The paralysis worked its way out of his limbs first--starting with fingers and toes then moving inward. By the time Mohamara could move enough to get up from his prone position, he was starting to feel a chill. The reason why became clear--his tail was less than half the limb it used to be, ending in a bloody mess about a third of the way down. There was a lot of blood pooled around the wound. Thankfully, it was downhill from him so it hadn’t gotten onto his clothes. Already they were stained and damp from the jelly of the netch he had landed on, but the paralysis effect seemed to be inactive.  
  
With the limited self-healing he knew, Mohamara stopped the bleeding and mourned the loss of his tail. It was painful, and he hoped that whatever had bitten him _choked to death_ on the tail, but not a terrible loss. Walking would be a pain, and his balance would be shot to hell, but a prescription of regeneration meds or an hour in a regenerator would see the tail restored.  
  
Government provided healthcare was great for things like that.  
  
Sure enough, when he got up to walk--after first putting his shoes back on--he was unsteady and stumbled often. “Damn animal, hope it gets rotten teeth,” he muttered after tripping on the rocky plains for the twelfth time in a row. The only landmark he knew in the area was the mountains--directly north of Lake Ilinalta, where he hoped the town of Lakeview would be. “Okay, review what we know. Sheogorath is mad. And decided to fuck with me because he’s mad. Jumped out of a moving ferry, almost fell to my death. Note to self: Don’t do that again.”  
  
As he got over a hill, slowly and with many fumbles in the attempt, he saw a strange sight. A mammoth, huge wooly elephantine creature with two sets of tusks covered in wounds and looking to be on its last legs, surrounded by a few quadrupedal animals with thick yellow fur and pronounced fangs--sabre cats. He’d seen them in the Whiterun natural history museum… because the species native to the plains of Whiterun had gone extinct in the Tenth Era.  
  
Which meant that Sheogorath had taken him on ‘vacation’ to Skyrim’s ancient past. However, that was to be considered later, when he got far away from the predatory cat he had no idea the abilities of beyond _taking down a mammoth_ in groups.  
  
“Lake Ilinalta is to the south over those mountains… means I’m heading west. Oh Lady above, let this be a time after Dushnikh Yal exists.” The traveling was getting worse, as he had to go uphill and climb over rocks, which his shot balance made for a stumbling, unpleasant affair. The situation was made all the more unpleasant when he started seeing a minor mountain range he had no memory of in the direction he planned to go, which meant going further south and closer to the not-so-extinct sabre cats.  
  
The sight of another person, hopefully not a Daedra in disguise, got the Khajiit moving. In time, he could tell it was an Orc man, which made him hopeful that Dushnikh Yal was in fact in the area and he could make progress on escaping the Mad God’s vacation.  
  
The Orc man reeked of the smell of booze. Mohamara could tell the moment the wind shifted to put him downwind. Already, the Khajiit was leery of approaching further, but the Orc had started toward him by then. It became clearer that the man was armed, brandishing a spiked club of some sort--Mohamara didn’t know weapons the way Yagraz did. Seeing a normal Orc always made him realize how much taller than average Yagraz was. She stood as tall as a High Elf, but the Orc man was easily half a head shorter than her.  
  
“Hey… you, kid,” the Orc declared once he and Mohamara were close enough for the Mer’s liking. “Hand over your gold.” A bandit, Mohamara realized after trying to parse why a set of leather armor such as the Orc was wearing was even considered acceptable. Yagraz would have torn into the design for how ineffective it was, but to Mohamara it just looked drafty, ugly, and unpleasant.  
  
“I… have no gold?” The Khajiit held his jacket slightly tighter to himself while he tried to parse the Orc calling him a kid. It wasn’t uncommon for people to see a tojay Khajiit and think them to be a cathay child, but the facial structure difference and fear of being racist usually kept them quiet about it.  
  
“You look like a rich brat, cat, think I’m gonna,” the Orc paused in his disbelief to force himself back from throwing up, and then spoke again. “You think I’m gonna buy that you ain’t got gold?”   
  
Mohamara shrugged, and turned out his pockets for the Orc, keeping his slate carefully hidden in the inner pocket of his jacket.  
  
“See? No gold. Now can you just point me to Dushnikh Yal?” Without his wallet, he couldn’t even have given the Orc paper currency, which he doubted had been invented yet.  
  
The development of not having gold drove the Orc into a rage, prompting him to lunge forward to Mohamara’s surprise. On a better day, he could have danced circles around a drunk of any race. But with his tail amputated and every leg movement producing stabbing pain, such was not the case.  
  
The Orc’s hand was easily big enough to wrap around Mohamara’s entire neck, from jaw to clavicle, and almost lift him off the ground even when drunk. “So you ain’t got gold, but I know a few rich man’s kids that’d like them fancy clothes.” The Khajiit’s ears went flat against his head while he processed what the Orc was getting at, and regretted that he’d been declawed as a child.  
  
Five minutes later, the Khajiit was on his way again, going purposefully as south as he could, in only his skivvies. Fortunately, there was little wind, so he was not constantly reminded of how cold it could be in Skyrim, even in the more pleasant regions. “Maybe Malacath will set trolls on him for robbing a ‘kid’,” the near-naked Mohamara muttered to himself while trying to avoid sharp rocks There were still no roads in sight, and he was almost glad for that. It wasn’t going to be pleasant walking to civilization without clothes.  
  
“One hour in the past, and already naked and missing my tail. Some ‘vacation’ Sheogo- **rath!** ” Mohamara had, in another instance of talking to himself, taken his eyes off where he was walking to make air quotes and give the sky an unamused expression. And in that precise moment, he stepped into a bear trap, which snapped down around his leg.  
  
The pain wasn’t as bad as when his tail had been bitten off, nor as bad as when he’d broken his thigh bone, but it was still debilitating--and unlike the other two injuries it produced an alarming degree of blood loss. Every curse word Mohamara had ever heard in his entire life, and some he made up on the spot, was screamed at the top of his lungs in the immediate aftermath.  
  
It was very clear from the first attempt at getting free that he was _not_ strong enough to pry the fanged jaws of the trap open enough to escape. Thankfully, shock quickly set in and numbed the pain enough for him to examine the situation. “So this is how I die,” he realized. “Not to a mad Daedra, or falling two hundred feet--but naked, in the wilderness, trapped like an animal.” He stood there and realized another horrible fact to his horror that tipped the scales and drove him into full on crying while he slumped forward in defeat. “That screaming Dunmer witch in 7-H was right!”  
  
The most he could do to actually do about the situation was attempt to keep himself alive with self-healing. But with him constantly bleeding from the bear trap, a novice spell wasn’t going to cut it forever - and in his mind, it would just make it more likely that something would find him to eat him alive.  
  
But the alternative was to do nothing. And if he died doing nothing to try and save himself, then what would his Lady say to him in her Colored Rooms? So, lamenting that he didn’t study Restoration or Alteration more in secondary school, he kept up a consistent flow of weak healing into his injury.  
  
Large Khajiit ears picked up the creaking of wheels and sound of horses not too far away. Mohamara had been near a road after all. He pondered the value of calling for help when he had no idea the time period or who the travelers were. Perhaps they’d help rather than laugh at his situation. But he had to consider: This was the Reach, unsafe even in Mohamara’s time. Who would believe a voice calling out for help away from the road, when there were fucking _bear traps_ potentially in the grass?   
  
But if he didn’t call for help, the alternative was to do nothing. He could recall a couple parables from growing up in the Kilkreath temple about the devout not accepting the Lady’s help because they did not think she had sent any.  
  
“H-hey! Help! Please, I’m stuck in a trap!” Mohamara heard no voices, call out, but the creaking of wagon wheels stopped, but the sound of horses continued. Whoever was on the road had definitely stopped, and in a moment he heard two sets of footsteps crunching on the grass.  
  
Over the hill stepped two tall-legged people, and for the first time since falling out of the ferry, Mohamara felt relief. They were both Khajiit, a man, and woman. The man significantly older than the woman and dressed in fine quilted clothes. While the woman sported armor of steel and fur in equal measure. They were both easily two feet taller than Mohamara, and from their tufted ears and speckled furs, he guessed them to be cathay.  
  
They did not approach quickly. Instead, they scanned the surroundings with keen eyes, ears, and better height before they advanced.   
  
“Um. Hey! Thanks for not… shooting me?” Mohamara didn’t see any arrows on them, but he couldn’t ignore the possibility that the droopy-faced elder cathay was a mage who could have ice spiked him from a distance.  
  
“A tojay? So far from Elsweyr?” The more brown-colored cathay woman asked the man in a hushed tone but was quickly shushed by the finely dressed Khajiit. She had a pronounced accent, Mohamara noticed but did not have time to speculate as the pain from his trapped leg began to steadily grow. The numbing effect of shock was about to pass.  
  
“Ja’khajiit, this one thinks you require assistance.” The cathay man stopped six feet away from Mohamara and the woman joined him in holding position. “You appear to be stuck in a Forsworn trap for wayward travelers.”  
  
“Y-yeah, and it… hurts about as much as it looks.” Mohamara took a moment to slow down his breathing. Yagraz would have been chiding him over how little tolerance for pain Mohamara had but she wasn’t there. None of this would have happened if she had been present. “H-help?”  
  
The cathay watched Mohamara struggle to heal his injury, then looked around him again, before nodding to the armored woman. “Go get a blanket from the wagon, and tell Atahbah to get all the healing supplies no one’s bought yet out.” The armored Khajiit nodded and trotted off back down the hill, while the elder remained behind and cautiously approached. “The omen from Skooma Cat said we would find something interesting today, and here is a tojay far too far from home for this one’s liking.” Mohamara half expected him to crouch down to meet his gaze equally, but the cathay kept standing while talking. “I look forward to you telling this one why you are here, what happened to your clothes, and why you are missing your tail. But for now, Khajiit needs you to stop that healing, and get ready for when Khayla comes back to open the trap.”  
  
Hesitant to trust a stranger, even one who offered help, Mohamara stopped his healing and tried to stand up fully despite the pain in his legs and tail. “It’s going to hurt even more once it’s off, isn’t it?” Without speaking, the elder Khajiit nodded, ponderously slow. Mohamara then rewrote history by being the first person to use an expletive that otherwise would not have been heard until the Eighth Era, in High Rock.


	2. Sleeping Tree Sap is Bad.  M'kay?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara needs some strong medicine to get to Markarth.

Earlier Mohamara had been grateful that he hadn’t been constantly reminded of how cold Skyrim could be. But as he stood with one leg in a bear trap, in just a pair of underwear, and missing his tail he began to rapidly realize the lack of warmth in his limbs. At some point, he had started shivering badly and probably had made his wound even worse.  
  
The armored cathay woman, Khayla presumably, returned with a rolled up quilt not too long after leaving. Khayla passed the quilt to the cathay man and then crouched down around the bear trap holding Mohamara’s leg to examine it.  
  
“A lot of lost blood,” she commented as she examined the trap. “And it likely broke his leg.”  
  
“Get the trap open already.” The elder cathay unrolled the quilt and threw it over Mohamara, even including his head. Once the tojay couldn’t see much of anything beyond quilted fabric, he felt the eldest Khajiit double the layers of the quilt by folding it over onto him. The blanket did little to combat the cold even when doubled up. “Ja’khajiit, when Khayla releases the trap, fall backward. This one will catch you. Walking on that leg is not an option.”  
  
Mohamara nodded because he couldn’t keep his teeth from chattering enough due to shivers to talk. He could still feel the pain, both in his tail and in his leg, but the cold seemed so much more present. Under the blanket, he grabbed the edges of the quilt and wrapped them around himself even tighter.  
  
The trap squeaked a bit as it opened up, and suddenly the strength that had allowed Mohamara to stand with it snapped onto his leg left him. Even if he hadn’t intended to do as the cathay had said, the tojay ended up falling backward and being caught early on. The cold provided a sort of shield, it kept the pain from becoming as severe as it had when the trap first slammed shut on his leg. But in exchange, he was shivering constantly due to a cold that felt like he was naked in the Pale rather than somewhere in the Reach.  
  
He was carried bridal style, and soon found himself placed onto a stiff surface on his side with the injured leg on top. Mohamara’s ears and nose could pick up enough information to tell him that he was lying in the back of a wagon full of items and that there were two new Khajiit in proximity to him.  
  
“Is so small,” an unfamiliar male voice in the same accent as the other Khajiit commented from outside the wagon. “A ja’khajiit? From another caravan?”  
  
“Worse,” the eldest Khajiit responded, grave. “A tojay, outside Elsweyr.” Sharp inhalations met his words, and the wagon shifted like someone was climbing up.  
  
Hands moved aside the layers of quilt blocking his face and Mohamara found himself looking into the curious eye of another cathay woman. “It is true,” she declared before shutting the blankets around his face again. “A tojay!”  
  
Mohamara didn’t _get_ the significance, but he knew pretty much nothing about Khajiit culture. Perhaps tojay Khajiit were rare, or they had an important job in Elseweyr?  
  
The cold was inescapable, especially after the blankets up to his waist had to be rolled away so his wounds could be inspected. The second cathay woman hissed, angry--probably at the sight of Mohamara’s tail. “This is not good, we have no regeneration potions.”  
  
“Don’t worry about that just yet. Get the wounds cleaned, bandaged, and a splint on that leg before he freezes to death.” An additional weight landed on Mohamara, presumably another blanket.  
  
The cold seemed to only worsen with every attempt to warm up, which made it difficult for the cathay woman helping Mohamara to examine and treat the injuries. “He is shaking too much--we need something to keep him still.”  
  
The tojay tried to force himself to be still, but the shivering persisted anyway. He wanted to apologize but ended up with a bit tongue when he attempted to do so. Once more, his face was uncovered, but this time he mostly saw a furred hand holding a purple bottle roughly the size of his head by a narrow neck.  
  
“Ja’khajiit, open. This is strong medicine.”  
  
Mohamara forced himself to hold his mouth open while two drops of shimmering, viscous magenta liquid were dropped into it. The taste wasn’t unpleasant, but it produced a burning sensation that spread outward from his throat and stomach after he’d swallowed it. Suddenly, his body was too heavy to shiver, though the burning negated the need for the heat generating movement. As he tried to process what the ‘medicine’ was, he noticed that everything was turning purple--the blankets, the small portion of the wagon he could see and even the cathay woman.  
  
But he didn’t have long to process this development, as his face was covered up by blankets yet again. The dark mixed with the purple hue and soon the two combined into a purple-tinged black void.  
  
At some point, he had closed his eyes and not realized, for when he opened them up he was not in a wagon. He was on a dune of white sand, overlooking many such dunes as far as his eyes could see, with four sharply rising gray mountains in the cardinal directions. The sky was a lighter blue than it should have been, with no clouds and with two additional stars in the daytime sky alongside the expected one. They were orange and purple, which got Mohamara to squint in exasperation.  
  
“Can’t even let me have my fever dreams, can you?” As if in response to his question, the two new stars started to grow larger. Significantly larger, and it was a second before he realized they were going to crash _into_ the white desert. Mohamara promptly turned around and started to climb further up the sand dune, but once he disturbed the sand it started to slide downward.  
  
After a brief struggle against gravity, he found himself half-buried in white sand at the base of the dune. A monumental crash indicated that something had landed, which made the Khajiit look up from trying to dig out.  
  
It was a grape cluster, enormous in scope. Each grape on the cluster was bigger than the statue of Azura in Winterhold, which in turn made the whole cluster almost the size of the Throat of the World. A second crash drew his attention again, and sure enough, it too was a fruit. A cross-section of an orange, equal in height to the grape cluster.  
  
“Yagraz would have _so much_ to say about me dreaming of fruit.” With no longer any pressing matter that he could think of, he started to dig his way out of the sand. Except, it wasn’t sand at all. The grains weren’t the right shape to be sand--sand was round, but the grains he was seeing were square. On impulse, he pinched some and put it in his mouth and found it to be incredibly sweet. “Sugar? A desert full of sugar?” The Khajiit paused to think about what he had just said. “A desert dessert?”  
  
He only noticed the sudden appearance of a foamy white liquid in hindsight, and soon saw an enormous pillar of the liquid flowing from the sky--directly from where Meridia’s star should have been. Again, on impulse, he tasted some when he could reach it and found that it was clearly milk.  
  
“Sugar, fruit, milk…what the--” He didn’t get to finish the sentence as the four mountains in the distance began to move as the milk levels rose to cover the last sugar dune--Mohamara’s sugar dune.  
  
He woke up craving a grape and orange smoothie.  
  
The cold wasn’t so bad, but Mohamara couldn’t remember why it had been bad at first. It was summer, wasn’t it? And he’d paid his heating bill on time, hadn’t he? A stabbing pain in his leg and tail as he tried to roll over onto his back brought at least some of the memory back. But he couldn’t recall how he’d gotten out of the bear trap, or where he was now.  
  
“Ja’khajiit,” an elderly man’s voice called from outside his blanket coccoon. “Do not be moving so much, you will start bleeding again.”  
  
That only made Mohamara want to move _more_ because apparently, he’d been bleeding. It took him far too long to muster the strength to even lift his hand, he’d forgotten why he was so desperate to move.  
  
“Just a few more days of travel to Markarth, ja’khajiit, then we will try to get a healer for you.” Oh great, he was going to the hospital in Markarth.  
  
“My insurance doesn’t work at Markarth Memorial though,” the tojay complained. However, as he finished saying that he struggled to remember why he wasn’t in an ambulance if he needed a healer. “I don’t feel well, but don’t have that kind of money.” With the Gildegreen Hospital in Whiterun closed due to a fire, the more expensive hospitals in Markarth, Winterhold, and Eastmarch had all taken the time to raise their prices. As Mohamara began to think of hospital bills, he forgot why he needed to go to the hospital in the first place.  
  
“Atahbah, the sap’s wearing off. Another dose when you move him next.”  
  
Mohamara tried to move several more times, but he was so lethargic that the most he could do was speak or move his fingers. After a time, exhaustion forced him into a dreamless sleep.  
  
A sudden shaking motion woke him up, apparently at night for the sky was dark. The layers of blankets around him were pulled away so that his head and shoulders were revealed. A sudden wave of bitter cold hit him, and Mohamara tried to grab the blankets back but his arm wouldn’t move. A cathay Khajiit man, his hair in braided rows and his mustache sporting gold rings picked Mohamara up and moved him around until the tojay was sitting upright at the edge of a wagon. Outside, a gathering of four dour-looking men, mostly tan-skinned Imperial humans. They wore leather armor that seemed to incorporate skirts and had some form of weapon visibly on their person. Some held torches, while two held a bruised and battered Orc between them.  
  
“This is the one he stole from,” the cathay man said, hissing in anger. “Cut off his tail, then shoved him into a bear trap!”  
  
“N-no!” The Orc sputtered through his busted tusks. “His tail’d been cut off when I found him, I swear!” He was elbowed in the side, which drove him to cough for a few minutes.  
  
“You’re a sick bastard, you know that?” The Imperial man who had elbowed him all but snarled at the Orc, a hateful expression on his face. “First you maim and rob a _child_ , then you lie to my face and think I’ll believe it!!”  
  
“Control yourself, Auxiliary.” A fifth Imperial man appeared from around the wagon, dressed in heavy metal armor similar to the other Imperial’s leathers. Beside him was a far older cathay Khajiit holding a bundle of clothes in his arms. “The man’s bound for Cidhna Mine already, don’t beat him too badly or he won’t be able to work.”  
  
“This one thanks you, Quaestor.” The eldest Khajiit spoke before laying the bundle of clothes next to Mohamara. “We did not expect to have grandson’s stolen items returned to us.”  
  
“It was pure luck that allowed us to catch this thief. But that writ I gave you should let you get medical treatment at any Legion camp if Markarth won’t let you get a healer. Safe travels, citizens.” The Imperials and their Orc prisoner went off into the night, with only their torches to indicate they still existed after a while.  
  
“We’re sure they’re his clothes?” The first cathay, with the fancy hair, asked of the elder. At some point during the discussion with the Imperials, Mohamara had taken to leaning on the taller Khajiit’s shoulder. He still couldn’t move very well.  
  
“He’s got witbane, doesn’t mean he can’t speak,” the elder Khajiit snapped and started unfolding the bundle of clothes next to Mohamara for the tojay’s inspection. “They are yours?”  
  
He didn’t know what had caused them to be so badly stained with light-blue patches, but Mohamara nodded.  
  
“And this?” From inside his jacket, a rectangular slab about the size of a book but far thinner was produced.  
  
“‘S my slate,” to tojay said. He wasn’t _tired_ but couldn’t muster the strength to move about; speaking was difficult with his energy constraints as well. And as he looked from the slate to the old Khajiit, he found he’d forgotten how he came to be seated at the end of a wagon.  
  
“For drawing? Hmm, perhaps an artist then.” The slate was wrapped up in Mohamara’s jacket and set aside in the wagon. “Khajiit apologizes for likening you to a kitten, ja’khajiit, but the Men would only believe it that way.”  
  
“Racists.”  
  
The cathay Mohamara was leaning on chuckled as he lifted the tojay back up to go to his sleeping spot. Mohamara had no idea how he knew where his sleeping spot was but didn’t get to ponder it for long. The cathay man uncorked a huge purple bottle and held it up for Mohamara to drink from. “Not too much, small one.”  
  
The taste was… like grapes and oranges, Mohamara realized. Somehow he felt like that should have been important, but it didn’t.  
  
He dreamed of the jungle, though he had never seen the jungle. Thus the trees stopped existing if he looked directly at them. So most of the time he looked at the yellow grass of Whiterun’s plains in between the jungle trees--because it made perfect sense for a jungle to have grass.  
  
Mohamara was being hunted by a giant snake with three heads. One head had orange scales and was filled with light so bright it threatened to set itself on fire. The other had purple scales and snapped at anything and everything it saw--even if there was nothing there. The tail had a third head of golden scales that Mohamara expected to help him, but every time he called out to her, she looked away.  
  
The snake sang a bizarre [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xGpJk3TSUi4) as it chased after him, as it phased through trees that stopped existing for brief moments. He’d thought this would make it easy to get away from, but sometimes it would pop up directly in his path and force him backward. The snake, particularly the purple head, snapped at him often and almost caught him by the tail more than once.  
  
But usually, he could escape enough to find the tail head, and beg her for help. And every time, she would turn her head away. This song and dance persisted until Mohamara was fed up, and he lept at her to _force_ her to help. The gold-scaled tail-head snatched him out of the air and devoured him whole.  
  
And Mohamara woke up to find a Nord man with milky white eyes peeking in on him from outside the wagon. The two stared at each other before the Nord man carefully backed away and vanished.  
  
“Ah, good, the sap has worn off.” A voice with a peculiar accent spoke from outside the wagon.  
  
Mohamara tried to sit up to look for it but found that his leg produced a searing pain when moved too much.  
  
“The witbane will keep you from being able to remember, but your leg is broken. No moving around until Ri’saad comes back with a healer.” A cathay man crouch-walked into the wagon. His strange braided hair and gold-adorned mustache made him seem familiar, but Mohamara couldn’t place him. His clothes were odd, layers of fabric topped with a leather jerkin--something Mohamara would expect from an old-fashioned elf, not a Khajiit.  
  
Mohamara tried to sit up, but a stabbing pain in his leg made him think that wasn’t a good idea. When had he hurt his leg? When had he gotten into an actual wooden wagon? Where in the seventeen Daedric realms of Oblivion were his _trousers_?! All these questions and more raced through his mind.  
  
“Here, water.” A wooden cup of the indicated liquid was offered, and Mohamara accepted. “Ri’saad will be able to get you a potion for the witbane at least, but it’ll taste awful.”  
  
The cup was taken, and Mohamara sipped as much as he could while laying on his side. The water… tasted funny? Like the pipes the cathay had gotten it from were bad. Still, it was not bad tasting water, and he needed to be ready for whatever he was about to get that tasted bad.  
  
When he looked up, he was surprised to find a cathay man crouched in the wagon, as if he had always been there. The taller Khajiit’s expression was pitying mixed with something else, but Mohamara couldn’t identify it. “Um. Who are you?”  
  
The cathay man smiled, indulgent. “You know, you’ve asked me that often over the past ten days.”  
  
“Ten days?” The last thing Mohamara could remember before going to sleep was coming back from Temple and--... The cup fell limp from Mohamara’s hand, creating a mess that the cathay hurried to clean up. “I’ve missed Temple!” Pain in his leg didn’t matter anymore, the strange man who had appeared from nowhere making a fuss didn’t matter anymore. Mohamara hastily tried to get free of the blanket cocoon. He had to get out!  
  
“Khayla, need help back here!”  
  
A cathay woman in a suit of steel armor that featured Nord designs appeared at the end of the wagon as Mohamara decided that he couldn’t trust a leg that _stabbed him_ every time he tried to stand. She caught the tojay as he tried to lunge free of the wagon, and pushed him back in with ease.  
  
Missing Temple was _unacceptable_! He’d _never_ missed Temple! It was the only part of his life that made him unambiguously happy--he built his whole week around it, and his faith had been rewarded in the past. When he’d been brought back from his first foster family, the Lady herself gave him an audience--he’d been permitted to ask one question of Her.  
  
‘Is it wrong that I still love them?’  
  
The question had taken a surprisingly long time for the Daedric Prince to answer, but her answer had cemented in him her divinity. It had done more to convince him the Meridia loved him, and that by going to Temple he could show her that he loved her back.  
  
The armored woman had no difficulty pushing Mohamara back into the wagon, where a cathay man who Mohamara didn’t recall being there grabbed him by his jaw and forced a purple potion bottle into his mouth.  
  
“Wait, that’s too much!” The armored woman shouted to the cathay man as Mohamara swallowed one, two, three full mouthfuls of the strange grape and orange flavored sap the bottle had held.  
  
Everything turned shades of purple, the forms of the cathay Khajiit that surrounded him twisted and stretched, and the sound of a deep drum beat filled the air.  
  
Mohamara watched as lines of tojay Khajiit walked through a hall of curved stone, bronze-picks slung over their shoulders. They marched in perfect synch, even when they had to walk straight up a wall, across the ceiling, or upon individual rocks falling from high above to cross a cavern. As he watched them, the drums grew more noticeable, until a horn sounded. At the horn, the tojay Khajiit all broke from their line and began to mine--into walls, doorways, each other, or the thin air.  
  
Someone was singing a[ song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ytWz0qVvBZ0), but Mohamara couldn’t place who, or where. He also couldn’t place where he was, or who he was. He was the pickaxes being swung, he was the tojay swinging them, he was nothing at all. Everything was still so maddeningly purple.  
  
As he watched, the tojay began to grow larger--to the size of Men and Mer. Their fur left their bodies and collected around their heads, in great beards and manes of hair bound up in bronze-like metal.  
  
The sensation of water surrounding him caused him to shake violently out of the dream, and realize where he was. Even as he woke, the song he’d heard in the dream stuck in his head, like an ear snake--coiled around his brain, not letting go.  
  
He actually was in a basin of water, in a stone room that took after Dwemer designs but was clearly too young to actually _be_ Dwemer in origin. Thankfully there was a slightly moth-eaten curtain because as Mohamara took greater stock of the situation he found that his clothes were gone. A nearby chair with a towel and corked bottles made him think that he’d been purposefully placed there.  
  
“From the splashing, I’m hearing in there, I’ll guess you’re awake at last.” A woman’s voice called from beyond the curtain, which made Mohamara’s ears droop. Someone had _seen him_ like this. “Mind your leg injury when you bathe, the break’s healed but we’ve left bandages on it until the scars close up. Don’t take off the ring.”  
  
Mohamara noticed a gold band on his finger and had been about to take it off when the woman’s voice told him not to. There was some magicka flowing from the ring into him, and his instinct had been to remove the possibly cursed item. Thankfully, the enchanting course he’d taken let him identify the magicka as a weak regeneration effect.  
  
“Get to bathing in there. The Jarl is going to be uppity enough about Khajiit in his city--no need to make it worse by smelling bad.”  
  
One of the corked bottles produced bubbles when mixed with the water, which made it much easier for Mohamara to feel safe in the curtained room.  
  
His mind was… foggy, like he’d taken really strong medications and was out of it for days. During the bath, he put together a rough idea of what had happened. One, the Mad God had shown up and taken a personal interest in his life. Two, that interest manifested itself in sending him back to an unknown time before the Tenth Era.  
  
“Um.” Mohamara started after realizing he should narrow that down some more. “Could you perchance tell me the year?”  
  
“Two-hundred and one of the Fourth Age. Don’t worry, we get asked those sort of questions all the time by people who come down from bad drinking parties and the like.”  
  
“Oh… thank you.” Mohamara knew next to _nothing_ about the Fourth Era. The last time his school teachers had taught history that ancient, the Khajiit had been six years old. Really, why would he have learned something that was sixteen thousand years ago, with multiple Dragon Breaks in the intervening time?  
  
“When you’re done, there are some clothes for you here. Your friends in the caravan sent them up for you since they couldn’t come in the city walls.”  
  
When Mohamara found the clothes, he was amazed by how far fabric technology had _come_ in sixteen thousand years. What he was given was a rough-around-the-edges green robe, child-sized, with an attached hood and stole. Why the stole had to be sewn onto the robe, he had no idea. And to his surprise, he found _his_ shoes provided as well. Had the cathay found the Orc who’d robbed him?  
  
He didn’t know about cathay, but he knew cathay- _raht_ to be the premier warrior morph of the Khajiit species. Morph was almost certainly not the proper word, but Mohamara had only spoken to other Khajiit raised as he was--in the foster care system.  
  
The leg that had been trapped in a bear trap was… noticeably weaker than it had been previously. Every so often, it would give out and he’d have to grab onto a wall or a piece of furniture to remain standing. And even when it worked, he found himself unconsciously limping on that side.  
  
But! His leg wasn’t broken, he wasn’t freezing any longer, and things were starting to look up in terms of his situation.  
  
The only problem that he had no idea how to deal with at all was that the song from his fever dream was _still_ stuck in his head.  
  
\---  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara's part of a sect of Meridia's faith that believes Meridia and Magnus to be the same entity, hence her being referred to a the main star of the day. That should make later parts of the story fun, and hopefully funny.
> 
> Also, don't you hate ear-snakes?


	3. Happy Birthday~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's someone's special day~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If what I say in reference to modern Tamriel doesn't make sense, tell me. I try to leave context clues, but sometimes it might not be clear enough.

  
  
\---  
  
**Chapter 3: Happy Birthday~**  
  
When Mohamara saw Markarth, it seemed… impossible that the city he’d known would grow from such a place. The only feature he recognized was Understone Keep, where the Jarl lived and lorded over his people. But even that was so very wrong to his eyes. The Keep looked like it was a Dwemer ruin that the Jarl happened to be squatting in--the whole city appeared like that--and not at all the refined place of ruthless efficiency he’d come to expect of the ‘safest place in the Reach’.  
  
“You look confused.”  
  
From the temple of Dibella--Aedric Goddess of Sex, Drugs, and Rock n’ Roll--a priestess had been asked to escort Mohamara back to the caravan. Partly to make sure he wouldn’t steal from anyone--a racist stereotype he couldn’t get mad at given the time period--and because there weren’t any canes or crutches in his size. She was Senna, a Breton woman--tan-skinned like an Imperial but her skull structure was what gave her away. Her outfit was pretty much the same as Mohamara’s, a rough robe with a hood and stole sewed on, but hers were yellow-orange. And while it was clear she did honestly hold the ‘Khajiit are thieves’ view from how she kept special attention to where Mohamara placed his hands, she never hesitated to help him when his leg gave out during the long climb down the stairs leading up to the temple.  
  
“Markarth is not… how I remembered it being.” Mohamara answered her question disguised as a statement. “Everything has changed so much.”  
  
“I wonder what Markarth you saw last that it seems so different.” Senna glared at a Markarth Guardsman, dressed in green brigandine armor with a shield sporting the Markarth emblem and face hidden behind a conical helmet. “Markarth has been this way for as long as I’ve lived here.”  
  
“When I last saw it, the city was….” He was going to say ‘bigger’, ‘grander’, or ‘cleaner’ but all of those would probably have been insulting. Though they were completely true. “Fuller? There were a lot more people, is what I mean.”  
  
The answer seemed to sober Senna up--her expression became sadder, and her eyes distant. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think about what effect having so many people gone could have.”  
  
Mohamara’s lack of knowledge about the Fourth Era meant he had no idea _why_ he’d accidentally hit the nail on the head with Senna, so an investigation was required. “What happened here?”  
  
“The war, and the Forsworn.” Senna led the way down narrow walkways along the butte at the apex of which sat the temple of Dibella. The city itself seemed to lie in the gulf between the butte and the mountain walls, forming a massive horseshoe shape. Only a few wealthy homes were built into the mountains themselves. And at the ‘tips’ of the horseshoe lay the marketplace, right against the city’s curtain wall and main gate. “Markarth sent many sons and daughters to fight the Aldmeri Dominion, more than any other hold save perhaps Dawnstar. Which in turn led to the Forsworn being able to take the city, and kill _more_ people. Taking the city back didn’t lead to a high loss of life, thank the Goddess, but we’ve been losing people to Forsworn attacks for decades now.”  
  
There was something in how she said it, how raw the hurt was, that made Mohamara wish he knew her better to give her a cooldown hug. “I… I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s not you that should be sorry, you didn’t kill anyone or start the war. But thank you.” At first, she had snapped at him but forced her tone to soften before offering her thanks. “Dibella teaches us to find beauty in all things, but I can find none in this pain.”  
  
“My Lady teaches that the pain you’re feeling right now _is_ the happiness you had before.”  
  
Senna actually stopped to look down at Mohamara, incredulous. The Khajiit sighed and leaned against a wall so his bad leg couldn’t give him problems.  
  
“Happiness easily becomes pain, that’s part of the deal. It’s most visible with love that becomes virulent hatred when betrayed. It’s a form of self-blame; ‘how could I trust them?’ or ‘why couldn’t I do more?’ The pain you’re feeling is _natural_ , and will pass. But if you cling to it, it will twist you up inside--like a hagraven.” Mohamara wished he had a talent with illusions--the priests of Meridia would weave illusions into their one-on-one sermons to give the person images to convey the idea easier. “If you trust in love, romantic love or the passion Dibella teaches, you’ll find a cure for your pain. I don’t mean to belittle your suffering, but it’s clear that what you’ve heard already didn’t help.”  
  
Senna watched the Khajiit, unblinking, for a moment before a wry smile spread across her face. “A Lady who teaches to trust in love, huh? I should have figured it out when I heard your name, Moha- _Mara_. I didn’t expect a Khajiit to worship a Divine, but then you’re not an average caravaning cat, huh?”  
  
He felt no need to correct her, Daedra worship wouldn’t become legal until the Seventh Era--and then only for certain Daedra. If she knew the truth, she could hand him over to Vigilants of Stendaar--god of ‘mercy’--who would gleefully beat him to death. Even in his own time, it wasn’t too long ago that the white-hooded Vigilants would raid Daedric places of worship and leave them hanging from the nearest tree.  
  
“I… had forgotten that Dibella is not just beauty, that she is love too. Perhaps I’ve been neglecting the sacred rites if such a crucial thing slipped my mind. Thank you again.”  
  
With their little pow-wow done, Senna led the way down to the marketplace, past the silversmiths and the single bloodiest butcher Mohamara had ever seen--he’d brandished a cleaver when the Khajiit looked at the chicken necks he was selling too long. From there, it was out the enormous Dwemer-metal gates.  
  
The city of Markarth had passable external defenses if Mohamara remembered Yagraz’ rants about the lack of ‘real’ castles in Skyrim the semester before last. Outside the curtain wall was a winding path that went down in elevation, intended for the defenders to cast down rocks and arrows on invaders.  
  
The invention of the airship, which Mohamara vaguely recalled happening somewhere in the late Fourth Age, would see all the work put into these ground defenses worthless. Also: Dragons were a thing.  
  
Mohamara remembered attending a guest lecture where a dragon was speaking. It seemed so strange at the time for a dragon to talk about the real-world applications of Mysticism in fields such as agriculture, textile production, and tax evasion.  
  
The best part of the lecture had been when the Imperial Revenue Service busted in and tried to arrest the dragon.  
  
At the base of Markarth’s winding path was a three-way intersection of the road. Along one branch were wagons set up like impromptu stores, tended by cathay Khajiit while Nords and Bretons hastened to purchase the goods.  
  
A cathay woman in a dress many shades of blue with a leather apron approached Mohamara and Senna as they drew near. “Ja’khajiit, it is good to see you walking.” She nodded to Senna and quickly offered thanks to the temple before the Breton woman departed. “You might not remember me well, but I am Atahbah. I tended you while you were sick and injured on the road.”  
  
“Hello, and thank you for that. I’m Mohamara.” He held his hand out to shake hers, which visibly confused the cathay woman to the point he lowered it. “I did something wrong, didn’t I?”  
  
“Khajiit do not shake hands, little one. That is for the Nords. This one is also confused… you speak like a Nord, but with Khajiit voice. We had hoped it was just the sickness.” She shrugged and looked over her shoulder to the customers attending the wagons. “Ri’saad wants you away from the customers until we know what to do with you. You do not mind staying in a wagon until the customers leave, yes?”  
  
“Um. Okay?”  
  
Atahbah led the tojay to a wagon behind the others, where huge bundles of cloth with sticks sometimes affixed within them lay. “Here we keep the tents until we ready to set up. So many customers today, we had no time. It is a very good omen.” Atahbah helped Mohamara into the wagon, and over a tent, until he was in between two folded up tents.  
  
The customers did not linger terribly long. But Mohamara passed the time by watching the dust filter in through the sides of the wagon and dance in the shafts of light from above. The shapes he saw in the dust were of strange plants covered in tiny spikes, winding rivers, and vaguely cat-like faces. Once the last customer had gotten the wares and paid the coin, other cathay came to the tent wagon to begin unloading it. Once free, Mohamara awkwardly stood to the side and waited for someone to tell him what to do to help.  
  
But they didn’t. They usually just glanced at him, and went about their work, usually with their tails slowly moving behind them--they were confused. The exception was an elderly cathay man in fine quilted clothes around whom the others moved. “This one is Ri’saad.” He introduced himself, with his tail more up than any other cathay in the caravan, and his ears forward. “Khajiit welcomes you to the caravan, all official-like.”  
  
“Hi. I’m Mohamara.” The lack of tail meant that Mohamara couldn’t convey how anxious _he_ was feeling. Putting his ears down would be _way_ too aggressive. “Thank you and your… employees? For helping out. What can I do to start paying you back?”  
  
Ri’saad’s ears went more into a neutral position, though his face remained ever droopy. “You speak like a Nord. It does not bode well for the questions I will be asking you. Come.” A sizable domed tent of quilted blue fabric, like Ri’saad’s clothes, was where he led Mohamara. Containers lined the walls, along with a considerable circular rug at the threshold. Ri’saad sat with practiced ease, despite his age, and indicated Mohamara to sit opposite him.  
  
“This one has questions for you, ja’khajiit. The answers will tell us how you may pay back the kindnesses we have done for you until a caravan from the homeland can take you south.” Ri’saad paused the conversation to bark an order to one of his cathay caravaneers when they nearly dropped a crate. “Ah, my kindness will be the death of me. But now. First question.”  
  
Mohamara sat a little straighter and tried to pretend it was a job interview. Perhaps it was. But he was going to do his absolute best to-... wait, he’d heard something about a caravan going _south_?  
  
“Why are you, a tojay, out of the homeland with no escort?”  
  
The question seemed important to Ri’saad, and to the other cathay as they slowed their work to listen in. And Mohamara got the distinct impression that the truth was not going to go well with them.  
  
“I was born and raised here.” Mohamara didn’t flinch as Ri’saad’s eyes became narrow slits in his otherwise droopy face. “Well, here, but not here? I… will be born here?” Though he didn’t shy away from the elder’s gaze, he couldn’t help but make an unsure expression as he spoke. “I’m… from here, but far _far_ in the future. Somewhere in the ballpark of sixteen thousand years?”  
  
“That is a considerable distance for the Dragon to be broken.” Ri’saad’s slit-eyes didn’t change, and his tail began to spasm and thump on the ground. “This one was about to ask how you came to be here, but the question is already answered. Skooma Cat gave the omen to find you, likely he brought you as well.”  
  
“Um, I don’t know who Skooma Cat is?”  
  
Ri’saad flippantly gestured. “Unimportant. So in the distant future, you are born in Skyrim. Why then, did your mother not take you to the homeland?”  
  
“Well,” Mohamara shrugged. “Because she was dead. Dad was a deadbeat who ran off on her, she went into labor early, and I survived where she didn’t. The cops found my dad, shoved me off on him, and he then shoved me off on the temple in Kilkreath.” He had no emotional investment in either of his parents, so detailing the little he did know was quick and concise.  
  
“You have my condolences.” Ri’saad’s tail continued to thrash about but he closed his eyes to pinch the bridge of his nose. “In Elsweyr, the tojay and tojay-raht Khajiit live in the Tenmar Forest. There they collect starlight to use for making moon sugar. Only they are permitted to become Moon Bishops, who study the stars and the moons to guide the Khajiit as spiritual leaders--only the Clan Mothers and Mane are more holy.”  
  
“Well, that’s awkward.” Mohamara gave a weak fake-laugh and directed his gaze downward. The next tidbit of information was likely to incense the elder Khajiit more--but after already helping him, he hoped Ri’saad would understand. “I’ve… never even had real moon sugar.”  
  
Ri’saad sharply drew in a breath. From the rest of the caravan, Mohamara heard much the same reaction and heard one woman say she wasn’t going to share her ration.  
  
“What do you mean ‘real’ moon sugar?”  
  
“Well….” Mohamara shrugged, and hesitantly looked up. Ri’saad’s tail was dancing around like a headless snake, with his ears flat against his head. “Sometime in the future, imitation moon sugar is invented. It’s mainly for other races, to get the sweetness without the psychoactive effects.”  
  
Ri’saad stared, unblinking before he sighed and his tail ceased thrashing--when he spoke, it was in a defeated tone. “That sounds like an excellent product to sell. Do you happen to know how it’s made?” The elder Khajiit seemed to have moved past the seething rage he’d felt earlier, but Mohamara knew better than to trust that.  
  
Meridia did things like that, make it seem like she was no longer angry with you then exact punishment when you weren’t prepared for it.  
  
“It’s made from boiling the juice of a type of root vegetable in northern Elsweyr, I think? All the labels for imitation moon sugar have it somewhere in their design. Sort of a tear-drop shaped thing, red but with a pink tip?”  
  
Ri’saad nodded. “This one knows that vegetable, and will spread the word to the clans in the desert.” The elder looked away, toward the caravaneers. They mostly seemed done setting up their tents and their wares. Currently, a cathay man with braided hair was working on making a fire while others tended the horses that drew the wagons. “The others will have questions for you--expected after spending ten days with you in the wagon speaking madness.”  
  
That thought made Mohamara’s stomach feel like it was full of stones. He’d been _talking_ , and couldn’t remember what he’d said due to whatever drug they’d had him on. But since none of the cathay caravaneers were coming to ask questions yet, Mohamara turned and asked one of Ri’saad.  
  
“You said something about sending me down south. I know you mean well, but Skyrim’s my home. Don’t suppose I can convince you to let me stay on?”  
  
Ri’saad’s droopy face went lopsided from him arching a brow in a dangerous curve. “Ja’khajiit, Skyrim is dangerous enough for those of us who can defend ourselves. A little tojay like you, who can’t even stop a robbery? Your being here places both yourself and us in danger--even Atahbah knows how to defend herself where you clearly do not.”  
  
The irony of Mohamara refusing to learn how to fight shortly before being sent back into a world where he _needed_ to know how to fight was not lost on him. And as his ears went flat with the realization, he pondered if it was why Sheogorath had picked the Fourth Era for their ‘vacation’.  
  
“I could… learn?”  
  
Ri’saad shook his head. “Learn what? How to fight in armor that is not made in your size? To wield swords almost as long as you are tall? To use bows you cannot draw the needed distance?”  
  
“You forget....” The cathay man with the strangely braided hair had come over to Ri’saads tent when Mohamara wasn’t looking. The tojay noted that he had peculiar gold bands in his mustache, a Nord steel sword at his side, but no armor. “...that people can fight with magic, yes?”  
  
“I can do magic, even… though I’m not licensed for Destruction spells.” Mohamara realized that if he got back to the modern time with knowledge of the Destruction school there would be an investigation. He’d likely lose his scholarships--he already had to bend over backward to get the damn things, the people responsible for them would be happy to have a reason to give them instead to a Man or elf.  
  
“I am Ma’randru-jo.” The younger cathay bowed his head briefly before crossing his arms. “This one heard you ramble about a college on the road here. What sort of magic did you study there?” Mohamara’s answer drove the braided cathay to bury his face in his hands and groan with the suffering of a retail worker. “Mysticism. Of course.”  
  
“I also know a bit about enchantment, if this thing with Sheo-”  
  
“Do not speak his name!” Both cathay hissed. But it was too late, for he was there. Sheogorath rose up from behind Ri’saad like he had been crouching there the whole time. Mohamara’s stubby tail fur puffed out from the sight. Both Ri’saad and Ma’randu-jo seemed not to notice him, from how their gaze passed clearly through where the Mad God stood but failed to react.  
  
“Speaking the Skooma Cat’s name on his summoning day is foolishness.” Ri’saad chided the tojay, his tail lashing again. “We have no offering prepared yet, and his shrine is not set up.” The elder Khajiit made no notice of how Sheogorath leaned on him, one hand resting on the cat’s shoulder while he looked over the camp.  
  
“Homey little place you’ve got here. A wee bit short on party favors, given the day, but they’ll get it set up.” The Mad God spoke in a voice no one but Mohamara could apparently hear. “If they know what’s good for them.”  
  
“Wait, but his summoning day isn’t until the second of Sun’s Dawn.” Mohamara tore his eyes away from Sheogorath and looked between the Khajiit  
  
“Yes… that is today, ja’khajiit.” Ma’randru-jo looked at him like he was simple.  
  
“Oh. It was summer when I left, I thought….”  
  
“That it’d be summer when we got here?” Sheogorath barked in laughter, like a mad dog. “But that would make things so much less interesting, mortal.”  
  
“This one understands what you mean.” Ri’saad gently patted the tojay on the head. “Breaking the Dragon plays with expectations, which is why Skooma Cat enjoys it so much.”  
  
“Wasn’t there something else that happens on today?” The Mad God walked upward, as if the air was the ground, with one hand on his chin in a thinker pose. “A court summons? Pushing little Timmy into a well? Assassinating Arch-Duke Nandifer? It’s gone and slipped my mind. Or did my mind slip it? Time _is_ rather slippery--due to all that dragon blood.”  
  
Mohamara looked directly into Ri’saad’s eyes, then looked at Sheogorath several times in rapid succession. The elder cat picked up on it and stood from his side of the rug.  
  
“This one must go and see that the shrine is built. It is too easy to forget such things after a day of good sales.” Ri’saad gently pushed Ma’randru-jo closer to Mohamara as he passed by. “Talk to ja’khajiit. If he wants to fight with magic, you are the only one who can teach him.”  
  
When Mohamara looked up again at Sheogorath, he saw that the Mad God was gone.  
  
“Don’t you go worrying about me.” Sheogorath’s head passed by, half sticking out of the ground as if he were swimming through water. “I’ll figure it out in just a minute or so.”  
  
“Now, this would not be so much of a problem… if you had claws like a proper Khajiit.” Ma’randru-jo took Ri’saad’s place on the rug, crouching down. “The females will want to ask you about what happened to them, by the way.”  
  
“My first family had me declawed.” Mohamara shrugged, though the news drove the cathay’s fur to fluff up in a rage. “Oh, not the surgery thing. If it had been removing my claws I could just grow them back. They took me to a face-sculptor and had her change the way my finger and toe bones were. Instead of having claws, I have digits like a human or elf.”  
  
“And in the future, there is no way to reverse it?” Ma’randru-jo’s voice had a barely concealed tone of venom.  
  
“Well, yes but you need a face-sculptor who knows Khajiit anatomy. Since the procedure wasn’t medically necessary, my insurance wouldn’t cover a specialist. I’d been on a waiting list for a charity to help pay for the procedure for about seven years by the time all this nonsense happened.” Mohamara then paused and realized he’d glossed over something. “Wait, how did you--?”  
  
“Cathay ears may not be as good as tojay, but we still pick up things even over the racket of setting up camp.” The taller Khajiit sighed and leaned back on his hands. “Your future world seems just as cruel as this one.”  
  
“Well of course it is, the world doesn’t care about us. We have to care about each other.” Mohamara shrugged.  
  
“You sound an awful lot like a Moon Bishop for someone who has never even seen the homeland.” The cathay leaned forward suddenly and snapped his fingers to indicate he had an epiphany. “There is a face-sculptor in Riften, perhaps she can reverse what was done.”  
  
“Something to look forward to, at least. Now, about that magic fighting?”  
  
“Oh, yes. This one will show you a basic Destruction spell: How to throw lightning from your hands.” The mechanics behind the Destruction spell were simple after the purposefully frustrating contradictions of Mysticism. After an explanation and demonstration, Mohamara was able to shoot lightning himself.  
  
The very first thing he did with his new magic was to channel the spell right into the specter of Sheogorath when the Mad God passed by until Mohamara's pool of magicka was depleted. As the Mad God rose from the ground, smoke pouring out of his eyes, ears, and mouth, it became clear from just how quiet the camp had gotten that everyone could see the Daedra.  
  
“Would you care to tell the class why you thought that was a good idea?” Sheogorath seemed no worse for the wear of being electrocuted at length. In fact, he stood with his hands on his hips, with disbelief on his face.  
  
“You’ve been prowling around for a while, unable to remember whatever it is you wanted. So I thought a shock might shake your memory loose and you could go back to your vacation.” Mohamara made up a lie right on the spot. In truth, he’d just done it without really thinking that Sheogorath was a _Daedric Prince_.  
  
However, the Mad God seemed pleased with his answer. “Well thank you very much, lad. I _do_ remember what today is now!” He held out a hand, where an orb of Daedric fire manifested and left a brightly colored wrapped box in the outstretched limb. This was then held out to the tojay. “For you. Happy birthday, son.”  
  
Once Mohamara had taken the box, Sheogorath bounced and clapped the soles of his boots together.  
  
“Right, I best be off. Have to see your uncle Pelly about some tea. See to it that these folk get my offering set up properly would you? And try to have some fun, or let fun have you. I’m partial to either, really.”  
  
When Mohamara blinked, the Mad God was gone. He looked at the box a bit, trying to process what had just happened. “Huh. Guess I forgot it was my birthday ‘cause it was supposed to be summer.” He looked over to the stunned Ma’randru-jo, questioning. “Does this make me older or younger, you think?”  
  
“Nope. Nope. None of this.” The braided cathay stood quickly and resolutely marched away. “Not dealing with this without some moon sugar. Someone else watch him. Nope!”  
  
\----  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ma'randru-jo's just jealous that Sheogorath never gets him anything for -his- birthdays.


	4. The Forsworn Conspiracy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Markarth is not kind to Khajiit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are now imagining Sheogorath as a member of KISS.

  
\---  
  
**Chapter 4: The Forsworn Conspiracy**  
  
After Sheogorath’s… visit, Mohamara put off opening the gift to help set up the shrine to the Mad God and prepare an offering. Ri’saad laid out many fine furs before the rudimentary shrine hidden behind the wagons. It was important that no one from the road be able to see the shrine or risk Vigilants of Stendarr being sent after the caravan.  
  
“The Skooma Cat likes pelts for his offerings.” The eldest Khajiit informed Mohamara as the shrine was done and the furs arranged like a selection from which a choice would be made. “And it is not difficult for us to obtain them for him.”  
  
“Meridia doesn’t really ask for offerings,” Mohamara responded. Unconsciously he reached for the amulet that up until recently he would have constantly worn. “Just that we destroy undead where we find them.”  
  
“Perhaps that is her offering, then? Destroying her enemies, like the Dunmer’s ‘Good Daedra’ would ask?” Ri’saad led the way back to the primary camp, and on the way, they passed Ma’randru-jo eating large pink and white blocks out of a bowl--moon sugar. “Not too much of that, or you’ll be too lazy to get up and sell to customers.”  
  
The braided cathay made a distant grunt of acknowledgment, but said nothing and avoided Mohamara’s gaze.  
  
“I’m guessing the whole Sh-... Skooma Cat thing was something I ought to apologize for?” Mohamara rapidly changed to using the cathay’s title for the Mad God, rather than risk him popping in a second time. What if he found his present unopened?  
  
“Attacking a Daedra so close to camp? Yes, an apology would be desired.” Ri’saad gestured flippantly over his shoulder while he led the tojay to a small tent with only a patch of straw out front for sitting on.  
  
“Alright--I’m sorry. Won’t happen again. Won’t summon Daedra on their summoning day without your say so.”  
  
Atahbah walked up, holding Sheogorath’s present with two rakes--like an improvised reach-grab, and placed it in front of the small tent then dashed off.  
  
“This is where you will sleep and work. There is paper, ink, quills, and charcoal so that you can use your slate to draw pictures for customers as they come by--you will charge a septim per person. Do not shout too loudly when you advertise your service.” Ri’saad turned to regard Mohamara in profile, before listing off instructions by counting off on his fingers. “Open the present--but do it away from the caravan, but within Khayla’s sprinting range in case you need rescue. My joints are not so good for running anymore. Your fancy clothes are here too but do not wear them often. This one will adjust other clothes to your size.”  
  
“Something with trousers would be nice, thank you,” Mohamara noted that Ri’saad did not accept or reject the apology he gave, but quickly picked up the present and started walking off down toward the river. His leg didn’t give out as much during normal walking, but he still couldn’t put his entire weight on it. Would really put a damper on catching up on exercise, but if it meant he could put off dancing until he had trousers, it could be tolerated.  
  
When he was at the river, he sat down and attempted to prepare himself for what a Mad God would consider a suitable present for a mortal. It was then that he noticed a tag attached to one of the box’s colorful ribbons. ‘To Ungrateful Mortal#73, From Daddy.’  
  
“I swear by the Blue Room if this thing’s full of moon sugar or something….” Mohamara looked over his shoulder to see if the ‘Khayla’ was watching for things like Ri’saad said. He spied a cathay woman in Nordic steel armor casually watching him while leaning against a wagon. She waved, and he responded in kind before turning back to the box.  
  
On a mental count to three, Mohamara opened the box. There was a rush of air as if to fill a vacuum, and Mohamara heard three notes of music. Inside was a plain white cavity in which a folded piece of paper stuck up. After he retrieved it, he gave it a read. ‘I’ve had this picked out for you since before you were born. Couldn’t risk you ruining my reputation as the Lord of Music. Enjoy! --Anne Marie.’  
  
“Did he really just give me the most metal gift possible?” Mohamara tipped the box upside down and shook it. “Does he even listen to metal music?”  
  
Meanwhile, in Solitude’s Blue Palace a cacophony of unnatural music and lyrics no one could understand rang out through the halls from the Pelagius Wing. Priests from the temple of the Divines had been called, and the Court Wizard was forced to enclose the wing in bubbles of silence so that court business could continue.  
  
“I… guess he did. Huh. At least it wasn’t cabbages. Or socks and underwear.” With no harm in sight, Mohamara took the box and lid in separate hands he walked back to camp. Khayla met him at the edge of the camp and inspected the empty box and the note it came with before letting him go to his tent.  
  
Inside he found his clothes, neatly folded on top of the same quilt that Ri’saad had used to wrap Mohamara in days prior. Both were rather stained, his clothes with some fluorescent blue stuff and the quilt with a large red patch that could have only been faded blood. To his surprise, he found his slate wrapped up in his jacket, no worse for wear!  
  
“Guess he thought it was just a drawing slate. Not even any cracks--Yagraz was right, buying Telvanni brand really _is_ great for durability.” The only thing missing was the earpieces, but he found that he’d been wearing them the whole time. The two clips of thin ebony probably resembled earrings to those who didn’t know better. “Now, if I remember I have the print screen servitor installed… oop, gotta recharge.”  
  
Mohamara placed his hand on the screen and let the tablet start to leech his magicka supply to replenish its own. The method wasn’t as efficient as plugging it into a Welkynd port at home, but it made due in a pinch. A full recharge would take all night through this method, but Mohamara only needed a fraction of a full Welkynd stone to check if he had re-installed the servitor.  
  
“Who needs to draw when you can print screen?” The tojay used the built-in occulory to snap a picture and unrolled a piece of paper which he then pressed to the screen. A line of blue light passed from the bottom of the slate to the top, and when he pulled the paper off it had a fully colorized image of his self-portrait printed there. “And the best part is they can’t even tell how bad the picture quality is because they haven’t seen better!”  
  
“You know we can all hear you, right?”  
  
Mohamara was interrupted in his small moment of triumph to look up and see several female cathay gathered around his tent. “Oh. Hey ladies.”  
  
“What you did there… you created a perfect portrait in seconds!” Atahbah was among the small group and seemed positively stunned by the miracle of techno-magic.  
  
“Um. Yeah. Telvanni’s Chiaroscuro slate. Cost an arm and a leg, and it’s sorta old, but it’s got loads of features.” A more sensible man would have worried about polluting the timeline. A wiser man would have seen the danger of telling people about a powerful magical item in their midst. And a more intelligent man would have realized that he was still in _the Reach_ where safety was an illusion. But none of those occurred to Mohamara, who just wanted the other Khajiit to like him. He looked at the cathay women, unsure of what they were trying to convey through body language and unable to articulate confusion without his tail. “... Do you want portraits of yourselves, ladies?”  
  
“You will charge them like they were customers.” Ri’saad’s voice carried over the wagons. “This one pays them enough to afford that.”  
  
Mohamara had substantially less paper to work with and more septims piled in front of him when they left. He realized that he couldn’t just leave the coins on the ground--they’d get dirty. So he put them into a wooden bowl and set it aside.   
  
There was… actually, very little happening after the ladies got their portraits. Mohamara sat and let his slate leech his magicka for the charge, and counted the birds flitting between bushes on the road. He vehemently wished his Meridian amulet had been among his clothes, but one missing item out of an entire outfit was unpleasant but acceptable. Prayers could still be had without the amulet--and even if he did have it the connection was broken. But he’d always had some physical connection to the faith he could find security in.  
  
Perhaps that was why Sheogorath had cruelly decided to cut the connection. For the sake of forcing him to have ‘fun’.  
  
Rather than pointlessly brood, Mohamara pulled up the hood on his robe and curled up around his slate with one hand on the screen, and took a nap.  
  
\--  
  
Days passed, and Mohamara found himself adjusting to living communally with other Khajiit even though it had been unpleasant at first. Once there was a bit less tension in his presence, the cathay were positively mother-henning him to make sure he was checking his bandages, eating and drinking enough, or if he needed help with customers. The last item did come up sometimes, as was expected of ancient Nords.  
  
Washing unmentionables and communal bathing in the river had been something he had taken almost a week to get used to. But he did adapt and found himself growing accustomed to having so many Khajiit around. Unfortunately, most of the clothes Ri’saad got for him were just robes cut down to Mohamara’s size, as apparently the child-sized trousers had all been bought already. Ma’randru-jo eventually grew brave enough to try teaching Mohamara more spells though he was visibly hesitant about it.  
  
The portrait making business was not as popular as the rest of the caravan’s goods, but it attracted a fair number of the richer citizens of Markarth--to the point that Ri’saad considered raising the price.  
  
And then one day, Markarth City Guards came down to the caravan and demanded Mohamara bring his slate and come with them.   
  
“The Jarl wants a portrait,” one of the green-armored guards informed Ri’saad when the elder questioned them. “Here’s the money, now get the brat.” Two golden coins were thrown at Ri’saad’s face but the elder neither moved nor blinked from their impact.  
  
“This one will find a chaperone to escort grandson, please wait a moment.” Ri’saad’s response was pleasant like he was talking to a customer. The coins that had been thrown at him, he bent down to pick up and played the part of a weary old man exerting himself.  
  
Mohamara watched from behind a wagon and noted the sneer on one of the guard’s faces. The man wore an open-faced helmet featuring corundum horns along its rim.  
  
“Wrong, cat. The brat comes alone. Jarl’s orders, he only wants one beast in his city at a time. Now fetch the kid, or we’ll get him ourselves.”  
  
The tojay’s ears flicked as he heard Khayla walk up behind him. Crouched down as she was, she still stood almost as tall as Mohamara standing straight up. “Ja’khajiit, this one will try to follow from the rocks. If you are in danger, Khajiit will attempt a rescue. But do not fight back.” She emphasized the last part, and then stalked away into the sunset shadows.  
  
“Fight back with what? Sparks? A bound dagger? Ice that the Nords grow up dealing with?” Mohamara asked the shadow that had been Khayla as he grabbed his slate from his tent. As an afterthought, he removed his good shoes and put on a pair of stitched fur ones that Atahbah had made for him. His experience with the modern police was that if they saw something they wanted, they’d take it quick as any thief. It would stand to reason that a boar would be a boar even thousands of years in the past.  
  
At least, since the Nords saw him as a child, he only had to worry about being robbed by them.  
  
With his slate held close, he made his way over to Ri’saad before the elder had to send someone for him. Even though both knew Mohamara’d heard the guards, Ri’saad explained the situation to him like it was an exciting opportunity.  
  
As a bit of petty revenge, when the guards started to lead Mohamara up the path to Markarth, the tojay decided to skip around them because they walked too slow. He literally skipped circles around them for a while before switching to moon-walking.  
  
“I get that you’re excited to meet the Jarl.” The guard in the closed-faced helmet, seemingly the more tolerant of the two, ventured in an attempt to stop the Khajiit. “But could you walk a bit more normally? You keep doing that in the city, you could fall down the stairs.”  
  
“Ah, a dent in his head will be good for ‘em. Means he won’t be able to go fiddlin’ with any locks.” The open-faced guard responded to the first, cementing Mohamara’s dislike for him.  
  
Regardless, Mohamara did not ‘walk more normally’, and had taken to sashaying when they got passed the great gates. Ancient Markarth still seemed… too small for Mohamara’s liking. It seemed like one big fight would knock the city down to a village’s worth of people.  
  
And it was still absolutely filthy. Uneven streets, debris that looked hundreds of years old. One store had literal cobwebs across their Dwemer-metal doors.  
  
However, Mohamara was more concerned with the knife-wielding Breton that came at him the literal moment he passed through the gates, well ahead of the guards sent to escort him.  
  
“The Reach belongs to the Forsworn!” The Breton with a closely shaved head and sturdy mining clothes swung a steel dagger downward in a stabbing motion to get Mohamara in the ribs.  
  
But Mohamara wasn’t less than an hour off a spinal injury any longer, and he’d had a week to let the regeneration effect work on his leg--and tail to a much lesser extent. So to a small, agile Khajiit a Breton with no combat training may as well have been a beach ball for how fast it traveled.  
  
“Woop! Almost got me there! Going to have to be quicker than that! Okay, I didn’t even dodge that one, you just sorta missed.” Mohamara let quips fly from his mouth while side-stepping, ducking, and jumping over the Breton’s attacks. A tojay with their tail could jump six and a half feet straight up without much athletic training. Dagi were even better, they could jump so high it made it look like they were flying. So Mohamara without his tail but with some athleticism easily jumped bodily over the Breton and landed atop a jewelry stand awning where he spit-hissed down at the would-be assassin.  
  
The closed-helmet guard finally appeared and tackled the Breton to the ground while the other stomped on his hand to force him to let go of the dagger.  
  
“My heroes!” The tojay rolled off the awning, which drove the Redguard woman manning the stand to jump from surprise. Evidently, she’d been completely distracted by the Breton assassin she didn’t notice her awning straining under thirty pounds of Khajiit weight. “Guards, I would like to report an attempted assault on my person.”  
  
The open-faced guard was about ready to backhand Mohamara for his cheek when another person entered the scene--Senna, the Dibellan priestess.  
  
“Is everything alright? Does anyone require healing?” She asked around rapid breathing. It was clear that she had been running from the sound of things. “I heard the Forsworn and came as fast as I could.”  
  
“Everything’s under control, priestess.” The closed-face guard responded while he held the Breton’s arms and forced the man to stand. “Just gotta pass this Forsworn filth over to another guard, and things will be good.”  
  
“Hey, Senna!” Mohamara waved to the Dibellan holy woman. “They let me back in town!”  
  
The Breton woman was stunned by this development to the point where she, along with most of the other marketplace goers just stared while the would-be assassin was frog-marched away and Mohamara led by his sole remaining guard up the road to Understone Keep.  
  
“Be respectful to the Jarl, and do what he says or I’ll make a rug out of you, cat.” The guard told Mohamara as he opened the doors to the keep.  
  
“Will the other guards make a rug out of you if _you_ disrespect the Jarl?” Mohamara played the part of a precocious child, while on the inside he treated the whole experience like going to the dentist’s.  
  
“If the Jarl said so, probably. But he won’t.”  
  
Inside the Keep, the filth was even worse than outside. There was dirt in the air, not pretty dust that caught the light and danced in the air current. Dirt. The path to the Jarl’s throne took them over debris from when the city still had Dwarves. It felt less like the residency of a king in all but name and more like a squatter’s abode.  
  
In a great room was the throne hall, up to a flight of stairs and in an alcove dead center. Markarth guards stood flanking the alcove and against each of the load-bearing pillars. Meanwhile, three golden-skinned High Elves patrolled the whole landing. Two in metal-feather armor, and a third in an oiled leather overcoat and hood. In the distance, Mohamara could hear the barking of dogs.  
  
Three humans were in the alcove where the seat of Markarth, the Mournful Throne, sat. Being in this city reminded Mohamara why all the transfer students from Reach secondary schools had been so edgy. Everything in the Reach was edgy. Even the edges.  
  
The humans were two men and a woman. The men, both Nords, were on in years and dressed finely. The woman was a Redguard, in steel armor, and had her hand in easy draw distance of her blade.  
  
“My Jarl, I’ve brought the beast.” The guard made the announcement from outside the alcove while Mohamara watched the High Elves watch him. They seemed particularly interested in his slate.  
  
“I sent two of you, where is the other?” The younger of the two Nords, who sat the throne spoke up. Presumably, he was the Jarl.  
  
“A Forsworn spy was discovered in the marketplace--Alois took him to get processed into Cidhna Mine.”  
  
This sparked a brief debate between the two elder Nords, but the guard turned and left the scene. Mohamara was left alone, in front of what passed for royalty in the Reach.  
  
“You are the cat that does those portraits, are you?” Once their debate had finished, the Jarl spoke again. Mohamara had seen that disdain in many people. mostly politicians and the rich, back home. “I did not expect a boy. Approach me.”  
  
Mohamara entered the alcove and walked to the base of the stairs, noting how the guards turned their heads to watch him as he entered.  
  
“I said approach me, _cat_.” The Jarl curled his lip, clearly of the mind that he was debasing himself by merely speaking to Mohamara.  
  
Hesitant, Mohamara ascended the stairs until he stood three feet away from the Jarl. He was perilously close to being in a range of being decapitated by the armored woman with one swing, and the oldest Nord watched him appraisingly.  
  
“I am Jarl Igmund, son of Hrolfdir. To have a portrait done for posterity is something I have longed to do for some time. But artists are expensive, and I haven’t hours to sit still on my throne while my Hold falls apart around me.”  
  
“It would be… this one’s pleasure to serve, Jarl.”  
  
“I’m sure it would please you more to have the chance to rifle through my cabinets, but if your method is as quick as I’m told you won’t get the chance.” The Jarl clapped his hands together, and a canvas in a regal frame was brought in by two guards, and set up to Mohamara’s right, almost obscuring the oldest Nord man. “How is this done?”  
  
“Just… strike a pose you would wish for posterity, Jarl Igmund.” Mohamara held his slate out in front of him. “Move around as you like, just tell me when you’re ready.” The tojay went the extra mile to have the screen facing Igmund, and use the slightly higher-detail front occuluory, so the Jarl could see his pose for himself.  
  
The Jarl took his time finding a pose he’d like, either not noticing or caring about the tension in the air from having Mohamara summoned like this. He was the one with the power, the one in control, why would he be tense? In the end, he settled on an overall reclined pose with his right arm bent back toward his face with the hand limply facing him. The picture taking and burning it onto the canvas was done in seconds, so the Jarl could review it.  
  
“Excellent work, Khajiit. Guards, escort the cat back to his caravan.” Igmund dismissively waved Mohamara off, too busy admiring his new portrait.  
  
“There is no need for that, Jarl Igmund.” Silent as a ghost, the hooded, leather coated High Elf had walked up behind Mohamara, driving the tojay to jump a little in surprise. His voice was soft, differential, and compassionate. “With a Forsworn agent in the city, there might be more. You need all your guards right where they are. My men and I have no pressing engagements for the rest of the day--we can escort this Khajiit back as a favor to you.”  
  
If Igmund had disdain for Mohamara, he had _daggers_ for the High Elf. Mohamara looked between the two taller men and wished he had never taken to portraits at all.  
  
“I… know the way back. I can go by… myself?” Mohamara tried to speak up but neither of the two men acknowledged him.  
  
“...Very well, Justicar. See that the cat reaches his destination safely. I will not have it said that my guests are treated poorly.” Igmund flippantly waved and began a conversation with the oldest Nord about where to hang his portrait.  
  
The High Elf placed a hand on Mohamara’s shoulder and gripped it like an iron vice. “Come now, little Khajiit. We mustn’t dawdle.” For being an elf, the ‘Justicar’ easily forced Mohamara to walk down the stairs and away from the throne through strength alone, though he relaxed it a bit as they started to leave the keep. The two armored elves soon joined him in marching Mohamara out. Things started to go badly when right out of the keep they took a sharp left turn rather than walk forward toward the marketplace.  
  
“Um. This isn’t the right way.” Mohamara knew, in his belly, that something awful was about to happen.  
  
“No, it isn’t.” The Justicar’s tone mirrored what Sheogorath would sometimes do, a low tone with just an edge of malice. “You see… I’m so very interested in what a tojay is doing in Skyrim. _Without permission._ ”  
  
“Oh.” Realizing that doing nothing was going to result in something awful happening, Mohamara did was any sane person would do.  
  
He tossed his slate into the air, slid out of the robe the Justicar was holding him by like a snake shedding skin, caught the slate when he was free, and jumped over the railless edge of the walkway to bounce between jutting rocks until he reached the path to the marketplace below.  
  
“Seeya, suckers!” At least this time he still had his shoes as he ran away from danger in his skivvies. Maybe if he did this enough times he could escape with a complete outfit. By the time the elves had gotten down to the marketplace, Mohamara had already made it out the gates, had several women exclaim and children laugh at his situation and was on his way back to the caravan.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, Sheogorath did not give him the most metal gift possible, but it won't be immediately noticed because it wouldn't fit the story narrative just yet.


	5. Safest City in the Reach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to save Markarth!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Intentionally writing silliness or fun isn't my strength as a writer. But I hope to get better while writing this story.

  
\---  
**Chapter 5: Safest City in the Reach**  
  
When Mohamara got back to the caravan he marched past all the curious cathay who saw him coming from as far as the Markarth gates and went to his tent. There, he formed his blood-stained quilt into a mound in which he hid away from the world with his slate.  
  
“Ja’khajiit.” Ri’saad’s voice came from outside the quilt mound. “Something happen in the city that this one should know? Such as what happened to your clothes again?”  
  
Mohamara sat up enough for his chin to show through the layers in the quilt. “A Breton guy tried to stab me and some High Elves tried to kidnap me. I don’t want to deal with anyone else today.” Then he laid back down, arranging himself to be as comfy as possible then put on a song from his slate’s library.  
  
“This is not a very mature way of dealing with situations like this, you know.”  
  
Annoyed by the lack of a tail to convey how annoyed he was, Mohamara sat back up and glared at the source of Ri’saad’s voice through a layer of the quilt over his face. “I had to run through a major city in my underwear because some High Elves wanted to play secret police after someone _tried to murder me_. Working out my embarrassment in private and avoiding social interaction are perfectly healthy in these circumstances. And second of all….” Mohamara blew a raspberry at the cathay elder, then lay back down.  
  
“Fine, this one will leave you be. Khayla, stay close to ja’khajiit until the evening meal.” Ri’saad’s footsteps faded away and left the heavy metal steps of Khayla outside Mohamara’s tent.  
  
The Khajiit lost himself in music for a while, able to forget the day that had happened until something poked him from outside the mound. He reached one hand out and swatted at the thing, but it persisted until Mohamara stuck his head out.  
  
Khayla stood with a Breton man, his face covered in an elaborate dark tattoo and holding a bundle of cloth in one hand. “Ja’khajiit, this Breton said he has a delivery for you from a woman called Senna?”  
  
Mohamara looked from Khayla, who used her ears and tail to convey a guarded emotion--she was ready to fight if need be, to the Breton and squinted. “Why would Senna send me something?”  
  
“I’m sure I don’t know.” The Breton shrugged and seemed to be forcing himself to act professionally. “I just know she was willing to pay some gold to send it down to you.”  
  
Mohamara looked between the two taller people, still squinting, before holding his hand out for the delivery. “Odds on it being some weird Dibellan thing?”  
  
“I sure hope a priestess would know better than to send such things to a child, but she _is_ Dibellan, so anything is possible.” The bundle of cloth was handed over, and the Breton turned to quickly leave. With the sun about to set, Mohamara guessed he just didn’t want to be out after dark. “Thanks, hope your next visit to Markarth is under better circumstances.”  
  
The cloth turned out to be a linen wrap, inside of which was a letter, and a key. Mohamara retreated into his quilt mound to read the letter by the light of his slate and set the key aside.  
  
‘Mohamara-  
  
That attack on you in the marketplace was the final straw for me. I’m sick and tired of the Forsworn running roughshod over the people of Markarth. I’m sick and tired of watching them die and not being able to do anything about it. Eltrys, the man delivering this for me, wants to help. Markarth isn’t your city, and these aren’t your people. But if you want to find out why the Forsworn wanted you dead, there is a key that will let you into a secret entrance to the city through the river. From there you can get to the shrine to Talos, directly underneath Dibella’s temple. The guards have not patrolled that route in years. I will not think less of you if you want to stay out of this.  
  
\--Senna.’  
  
“You know when you mention twice how I can just opt out I think I really, _really_ can’t.” Mohamara sighed and reached for a red robe outside his pile. Sheogorath had wanted him to have fun, and uncovering a conspiracy could potentially be fun. Except it was likely to get him killed. Except so was _everything_ in this danged time period. Learning to deal with it early on would do well, he justified.  
  
Really, he just didn’t want Senna to get herself killed because of him.  
  
There was something twisted in Skyrim, Mohamara had known that for as long as he’d lived. Mysticism, the study of sympathetic connections between people, places, things, and ideas had taught him to give an identity to the twisted thing within the land--all work and no play. The Reach was the ideal place for followings such as Molag Bal, who thrived on conflict and dominance, for it was the worst of the province’s Holds. Mohamara knew how to deal with such brutal connections--not with more brutality, but with flippancy.  
  
It was a required part of a Mysticism degree to learn how to identify such hostile sympathetic connections. In his own time, he was too busy working to keep a roof over his head to live with fun, Yagraz had pointed it out to him more than once. But here, he was supposed to be ‘on vacation’. Fun was required, ordered by Sheogorath So armed with this knowledge and only a few actual weapons he knew what he had to do: He had to use the power of fun to keep the Reach from pulling on sympathetic connections to get Senna and her Breton friend killed for trying to end its game while playing by its rules.  
  
He disliked, vehemently, that he had to admit to himself: He would be best served by emulating the Mad God than his own Lady of Infinite Energies. He still loved her and had no intention of letting Undead keep on existing, so he was sure she’d understand.  
  
So! Once properly dressed, and his slate hidden away, and key retrieved, Mohamara ambled out of his tent like he knew what he was going to do for the rest of the day.  
  
“Ja’khajiit, you are feeling better?” Khayla caught his attention, leaning against a wagon in her usual manner of lurking.  
  
Mohamara gave her a broad smile and thumbs up with a dynamic pose. “Nope!” His answer took some time to register with her, and in that time Mohamara had skipped his way down to the river. Part of fighting with fun was to accept that control was an illusion, even control of one’s self. So Mohamara followed the impulse to jump out to the rocks and use dancing skill with Khajiit agility to balance on his toes.  
  
“What in the moons are you doing?!” Khayla had rushed to the riverside, but could not follow Mohamara due to her armor. “Ja’khajiit, you could fall with your bad leg, and drown!”  
  
“I know! Makes things so much more interesting, doesn’t it?” With his tongue out in a blep, Mohamara lept between the rocks as he moved under the Markarth bridge. As he made his way upstream via this method, his leg did end up giving out from supporting his full weight one too many times. But he didn’t go tumbling into the river, just ended up skinning his bad shin a bit on the rocks.  
  
Khayla tried following him, but the river started to stray too close to the city for her. She couldn’t leave the caravan with one less guard, no matter how far away Mohamara went.  
  
The river led him under the curtain wall, and up increasingly rapid water until he came to an iron grate blocking his path. Thankfully, there was a tunnel almost immediately connected to this area and thus Mohamara could make his way up and out--considerably wetter than when he’d started, however. Halfway up the tunnel was a second grate with an integrated door, which Mohamara opened with the key he’d been given.  
  
All the while, Mohamara whistled a merry tune, not giving a thought to how a guard could hear and investigate the sound. If they did, so what? Up the tunnel, he went, and he found himself at the top of the curtain wall, under the covered section. The only safe way into the city from there was the main gate, where guards watched for ne’er-do-wells.  
  
So, naturally, Mohamara got a running start and lept off the wall into the city, and landed in the river. Without gravity, the water was not so fast as it had been below, and Mohamara could easily swim to shore.  
  
He passed by several people in sturdy mining clothes, similar to his would-be assassin, hauling ore toward some conical smelters while an Orc man oversaw them. Said Orc was more than a little annoyed by a Khajiit walking in and disturbing his smelter and started after Mohamara who went walking where impulse led. However, Mohamara was leaving an abundance of water in his wake which the Orc discovered when he stepped into a puddle of it and slipped onto his back.  
  
Minutes later two workers, carrying great loads of ore slipped on the water as well and dropped their mineral cargo onto their Orc foreman.  
  
Mohamara was already crossing the bridge to the butte where the temple of Dibella lay--and below it, the shrine of Talos.  
  
“What in Oblivion are you doing in the city, Khajiit?” A female city guard stopped him as he was starting toward the gap in the rock where a prominent double Dwemer metal door lay. “You look like you took a swim in the river. Well? Explain yourself.”  
  
Language was superficial to a specialist in Mysticism. The sympathetic bonds between words and the ideas behind them were pretty much the same in all languages regardless of grammar, spelling, or even manner of conveying the information. The point of language was to encode these ideas and keep the information secret from people outside the designated social group. Which in turn led to the development of the Tongues spell in the Mysticism school which allowed the user to understand all written or spoken languages.  
  
So when Mohamara responded, it was in Dunmeri, telling her exactly why he was in the city--to discover the secret behind the Forsworn attacks and put an end to it. But he said it in a tone and body language that would make a Nord who didn’t know better assume he was just a panicking child that didn’t speak the common tongue.  
  
“Oh, Ysmir’s beard don’t cry. Look, stay here and I’ll go find your mother. Stay. Here.” She repeatedly pointed to the ground and then marched off.   
  
Mohamara almost felt bad for taking advantage of a genuinely good guard’s kindness. Once she turned the corner he finished his jog to the shrine and ducked inside.  
  
At the bottom of a flight of stairs was a candlelit statue of Tiber Septim, who had become Talos the god. Both Senna and her Breton messenger--Eltrys stood there, whispering to each other. They immediately paused and looked up at him.  
  
“I take it your arrival was not as easy as it was for us.” Senna cunningly observed as the sopping wet Khajiit walked down the stairs.  
  
“You shouldn’t have got him involved.” The fairer skinned Breton chided. “He’s a Khajiit, he can’t move freely around the city.”  
  
“The both of you are so tense, can’t do no skullduggery like this.” Mohamara got a gasp out of the two of them by cartwheeling down the stairs then transition into crawling up the statue of Talos to sit atop his winged helmet. “Relax, take a load off, punch a rich man in the teeth.”  
  
The two humans looked at each other before they then focused on the Khajiit. “Are you okay, Mohamara?” Senna’s tone was guarded like she expected a nasty surprise.  
  
“I had a man try to murder me earlier today, an attempted kidnapping, and now you asked me to come back into this city and risk my neck to stop the insidious evil at the root of it. Of course, I’m not okay!” The Khajiit wrapped his legs around Talos’ neck and hung down behind him like a second cape. “But if I act like a madman then it’s easier to cut through the sympathetic magic that’s keeping things the way they are in Markarth.” He released his legs and let himself slide down the back of the statue, then scooted around on the ground once there. “And between you two and me, behaving is like this is exhausting. I don’t know how Sheogorath does it all the time.”  
  
“So there’s magic at work here?” Eltrys cut in and looked down at his feet. “So there’s not much I can do to help.”  
  
“Not necessarily.” Senna waved off the Breton man’s worries. “Mohamara’s a priest of Mara, he has the goddess’ insight with him. Dibella’s been silent on this, but it could be that Mara is more informed because her more widespread love reaches more minds and hearts. So if this magic can be undone with action, then there’s still help you could give.”  
  
“Simplification of complex issues is an important first step to comprehension.” Mohamara held up one hand to point while he scooted around on his [shoulder](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9RziTnIdpj4). “But yes, there is sympathetic magic at work that is consistently connecting violence and death to fear and control here.” He left out how no matter what they did that day, it would remain the same for literally thousands of years. “Frivolity and happiness melt those bonds, so the more fun you have the weaker the bonds will become.”  
  
“Could that be what the Forsworn have been attempting? An incredibly complex ritual to usurp Markarth through these ‘sympathetic bonds’?” Eltrys looked at the priestess and the ‘priest’ for confirmation.  
  
“...Of course. The killings started shortly after they were removed from the city. They can’t take the city through force, so they’re going to do it through magic. Hagraven magic most likely.” Senna had tapped her chin in consideration before an epiphany struck. “Mohamara, how much happiness would we need to undo their spell?”  
  
“We would need to throw the biggest party in Markarth’s history!” The cat had taken to trying to get himself back in a standing position purely by pushing himself into a corner. “Every man, woman, and child would need to be happy.”  
  
“Good luck with that. The folks in Cidhna Mine alone would drag down any effort to make a celebration that size happy enough.” Eltrys was proving to be a real bummer, as far as Mohamara’s madman act was concerned.  
  
“Then the next best thing would be a contradiction. The sympathetic bonds are set up to tie death and pain to fear and power. So you need to cause those things to lead to other results. A death that causes widespread happiness, or pain that people enjoy.”  
  
“That last part? I can do that, no problem.” Senna informed the men with a wry smile.  
  
Eltrys coughed and developed a pink tinge to his cheeks.  
  
“But it all falls apart if you don’t get the mastermind behind it.” The humans looked at the corner Khajiit with interest. “All these sympathetic bonds had to have come from somewhere. They develop in response to either the intentional use of magic or over the course of generations. So someone set this all up since the murders are relatively recent, and isn’t sharing any of the benefits with anyone else. You can undo all the work they’ve done so far, and they’ll just start it up again. The fish rots from the head down, as they say in Riften.”  
  
The humans decided to go out into town to find answers and agreed to come back to the shrine to coordinate what they’d discovered. Mohamara was basically forced to stay in the shrine of Talos until they could find out the cause of the Forsworn attacks, then smuggle him out.  
  
He found it incredibly difficult to stay in the headspace of ‘what would Sheogorath do?’ while mind-numbingly bored. There were only so many times he could play ‘I Spy’ with Talos’ statue.  
  
Several times the two Bretons both came to the shrine to inform each other, and Mohamara of what they’d found. At first, there were no substantial leads, but then two breakthroughs happened almost simultaneously.  
  
“I found a note in Weylin’s room directing him to strike in the marketplace by someone named ‘N’, I just need to find out who that is.”  
  
“There’s an Imperial spy in the Silver-Blood Inn. She’s been investigating the Silver-Blood family, and after I talked to her a guard threatened me. I think the Silver-Bloods might be involved.”  
  
Mohamara clapped his hands together, getting the two humans to look at him as he sat curled up on Talos’ head. He spoke to them, in that unique mad headspace where madness and clarity intersected. “How did this come to be? How long have these Silver-Bloods and this ‘N’ been the Jarls of Markarth, and not Igmund? Like hornets protecting their hive, they will come to snuff you out now that you’ve both shown to be powerless, and worse-- _annoying_. Provoke the Hornets to swarm and then go wake the cave bear to steal their precious honey. For they only grew mighty from his slumbering.”  
  
“... Talos? Is that you?” Eltrys hesitantly backed away from the cat with a madman’s eyes that pierced through him.  
  
“Don’t be a fool--it’s far more likely to be Lady Mara.” Senna flippantly gestured, then rushed up the stairs out of the shrine. “And I for one agree with Her advice, let’s go.”  
  
When Eltrys had gone as well, and Mohamara was alone, again. He sighed to himself and went limp on the Divine’s statue. “This isn’t fun at all.” The act of madness slipped away, and he started to think about what he’d done. Ri’saad and the caravaneers were going to be _so_ angry with him when he got back. If he got back.  
  
“So you’re the one stirring up trouble.” After an indeterminate span of time waiting for the Bretons to show back up, Mohamara caught three Markarth City Guards entering the shrine, all with close-faced helmets. “I expected it to be another native, but guess cats like making trouble too.” The three of them drew their swords and advanced.  
  
“If you don’t resist, we’ll make it hurt less.”  
  
Mohamara just gradually arched an eyebrow as the three Nords approached him. They had left the Dwemer doors ajar, and this proved to be their undoing as Senna, Eltrys and three additional people stepped into view on the temple steps. They were Igmund, Jarl of Markarth, his Redguard bodyguard, and the mysterious elder Nord that had sat with them earlier.  
  
“So you will kill me? On whose authority?” Mohamara kept his eyes focused on Igmund, who sneered but held the Khajiit’s gaze silently.  
  
“Thonar Silver-Blood, the only man who matters in this city. You’ve messed up his deal with Madanach by having Nepos killed. Now the Forsworn gotta find a new middleman, and we gotta pin your murder and all the other deaths on your friends. You know what? I think I’m going to make it hurt _bad_ , cat, to make you pay for all this extra work you’re making us do.”  
  
“I see. Are you satisfied, my Jarl?” The three Nords didn’t stop, likely thinking that Mohamara was bluffing. One reached up to grab the cat, flipping his sword around for a stabbing motion when all three men froze dead in their tracks when Mohamara was answered.  
  
“I _distinctly_ remember ordering Madanach be sent to the headsman's block,” Igmund spoke with a barely suppressed fury that bespoke a coming explosion of anger. “Isn’t that right, uncle?”  
  
“Quite.” The mysterious elder Nord spoke up, giving the three frozen guards a contemptuous look. “Was it not the Silver-Bloods who did the deed on your behalf?”  
  
“It would seem that a was a lie.” Igmund turned to speak over his shoulder, another Markarth guard leaned in from around the corner to hear the order. “Round up the Silver-Bloods. Every last one. I want them all thrown into that damn mine of theirs.” The longer he spoke, the harder it seemed to be for him to contain his overflowing rage. The Jarl’s hands were shaking like he had palsy, and his face was growing red as a tomato. Suddenly, he pointed at Eltrys, who quickly bowed and backed away. “You! You and the priestess did more for this city in one day than those _parasites_ have done in twenty years. I will see about getting you both a position of prominence for this.”  
  
“What of these three men, my Jarl? And of Madanach?” Senna spoke up, unafraid of the Jarl in a near berserk state. “If my guess is right, Madanach is behind a long-term Forsworn magical ritual affecting the whole of Markarth--he needs to be destroyed before we can begin taking the ritual magic apart.”  
  
“I will see Madanach’s head roll. With my own eyes this time! Search the Silver-Blood’s papers, if they have him hidden away somewhere I want him found!” Igmund had devolved into full-throated shouting. “Someone pry Calcelmo away from the damn Dwarves and help with this ritual or whatever it is!”  
  
Igmund’s uncle left to fulfill these orders, while more Markarth guards streamed into the shrine to apprehend the three that had been inches away from murdering Mohamara. The Jarl stomped his way down to the foot of the Talos statue which the cat was using as a chair. His body language and expression shifted between wanting to do violence to Mohamara himself and angrily pointing. The Nord ground his teeth together and glared vicious daggers at Mohamara who calmly kept a neutral expression.  
  
He’d worked in retail before, and nothing he’d seen from Igmund--including threats of decapitation--was worse than what he’d had customers pull on him when enraged.  
  
At last, the Jarl seemed to force himself into being composed. “You. And your. Kin. May enter. Markarth. To do business. Or buy property.”   
  
Mohamara slowly grinned as only cats could while the Nord literally forced the words out.  
  
“But if I hear a word about any of you thieving, or selling poisons, I will make all of you into one. Giant! _Rug!_ ” Igmund left, with his Redguard guard following behind him, almost trailing steam behind him.  
  
“Okay, I take it back. That was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.” Mohamara said when it was just him, Eltrys, and Senna again.  
  
“At least now we won’t have to smuggle you out of the city. My only plan was to disguise you as a girl and claim I was teaching you Restoration magic.” Senna mentioned offhand, which got Mohamara’s smile to waver a bit.  
  
“Just because I wear robes doesn’t mean I’d agree with wearing a dress.”  
  
“A robe is a type of dress, you know.”  
  
Mohamara made swiping motions in the air, even though he was easily ten feet away from the Dibellan priestess. “If I had claws, I would scratch your eyes out for that.”  
  
“If you had claws, I would almost consider you a threat. As-is, you’re too adorable to be able to do me harm.”  
  
Eltrys looked between the two of them and arched a brow of his. “I thought you said you only knew each other a little? You two are talking like you’ve known each other for years.”  
  
“It’s a coping mechanism--using humor to deflect how stressful the day has been by being over familiar.” Mohamara waved off the Breton man’s concerns and finally climbed down to the floor like a civilized person.  
  
“Indeed. I’m surprised you haven’t done something similar yet.” Senna shrugged and walked with Mohamara as the cat ascended the stairs. “Come on, let’s leave the well-adjusted man alone.”  
  
“He clearly doesn’t need us to help deal with his problems. Probably has life goals beyond tomorrow or something.”  
  
“Well--good for him.”  
  
“Aww, come on!” Eltrys trotted after the two sashaying robed people, feigning a whine. “I have plenty of problems we could joke about--over some mead perhaps? Hey, wait up!”   
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cats have poor impulse control. So when they abandon what little they have in that regard, things go bad right quick.
> 
> But hey, Markarth's over and there is no reason to ever come back to the awfullest place in Skyrim. Yay!


	6. Matchmaker, Matchmaker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara gets the news he neither expected nor wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember kids, if you give your children weapons, to mind the pointy end.

  
\---  
**Chapter 6: Matchmaker, Matchmaker**  
  
For reasons that strongly resembled High Elves that had already stolen one pair of robes, Mohamara did not want to join Senna and Eltrys in celebrating their victory at the Silver-Blood Inn. Instead, he slowly made his way down to the caravan behind the group of guards dispatched to inform Ri’saad about the Jarl’s decree.  
  
It felt like he was walking to the Headmaster’s office to be screamed at or something, a proximal tension in the air that only got worse as he drew closer.  
  
When the guards arrived at the caravan and began speaking to Ri’saad, Mohamara stayed back near the road sign. More than one of the cathay in the caravan were looking at him with twitching tails and flat ears--clearly angry. Even Ri’saad’s tail was swishing back and forth ever so slightly.  
  
But the news that the caravan could now do business in Markarth city proper, perhaps even buy property, got more than one of those upset body language cues to lift. Excited talk of the new profits that could be made reached across the distance to reach Mohamara--and it would have done much to relieve the tension if Ri’saad’s body language had not remained unchanged.  
  
Soon enough, the guards turned and left and only the Khajiit remained. Ri’saad’s eyes locked onto Mohamara, who hesitantly approached when it became clear Ri’saad wasn’t moving. In short order, the tojay was standing in front of the cathay and struggled to meet his gaze.  
  
“You ran off, knowing what you were doing could get you killed.” Ri’saad had no anger in his voice or face. Only his swishing tail indicated any danger in the situation. “If not by the river, if not by the Nords, if not by the Forsworn--who had already tried to kill you, then by the Thalmor you escaped.”  
  
Mohamara nodded to each one because he knew he would only start trying to explain what couldn’t be explained if he spoke.  
  
“And in so doing, you have dismantled the Silver-Blood empire and won us access to Markarth that twenty years of honorable behavior could not. Well done.” Ri’saad reached down and patted Mohamara on the head. When he saw how stunned the tojay was, the elder seemed amused. “Khajiit value cleverness and cunning, not obedience. I would be angry with you had you gotten injured again, or done something to sour our relations with the city. But your clever game won us mighty profit both now, and in the future.”  
  
At that precise moment, Mohamara’s bad leg decided it was the time to give out on him. Mohamara gave a brief gasp as he started to list out from under Ri’saad’s hand. “Oh! Gravity works.” Then he hit the ground, not hard but enough to ruin the moment.  
  
Someone in the caravan found this worthy of snickering. Ri’saad merely sighed, and helped the tojay up. “This one thinks your leg is perhaps not healing properly--is understandable, Dibellans not known as great healers. Perhaps in Whiterun, the Kynareth temple can fix it.”  
  
“Well, maybe it’d be better if I had something better than this weak sauce regeneration effect.” Mohamara tweaked the gold ring still on his finger to provide weak regeneration for his leg and tail. “Feels like they just shoved a fox’s soul into it or something.”  
  
Ri’saad arched his droopy brow as he allowed Mohamara to lean on him until the tojay’s leg was recovered. “You think you can do better, ja’khajiit?”  
  
Mohamara puffed out his chest, to limited effect since he was so drastically small. “I got my Enchanting Plus Certification just last year. I’m legally authorized to handle souls up to the greater size category--so I _know_ I can do better. Heck, give me a petty soul and I could still do better than this.” He examined the band and stuck his tongue out. “Looks like something they had an _intern_ do.”  
  
“This one will see about getting a soul gem for you, then. But come, you have missed the evening meal so will have to settle for cold food.”  
  
“Ick.”  
  
\--  
  
They stayed in front of Markarth only a day longer. During the packing up, Mohamara was asked frequently to use his small size to get into the packed up wagons, heavy with goods purchased from Markarth, and ensure that they were arranged so as not to break anything.  
  
To pass the time on the boring long march north and around the mountains Mohamara still did not know the name of--no one he asked seemed to know either--he listened to music and looked through years of pictures on his slate.  
  
With the earpieces blocking all sound from the outside world, he found himself startled by sudden shaking more than once. Most often it was to tell one of the curious cathay that he couldn’t answer questions about the future because he hadn’t studied that period of history.  
  
Most couldn’t grasp how _ancient_ the Fourth Era was to Mohamara, or how much had happened in the sixteen thousand years between it and his future that he couldn’t know all the details.  
  
“You often sit for long periods of time just staring at that thing, holding it while you layabout,” Ma’randru-jo commented once while he walked behind the wagon on top of which Mohamara sat and watched the horizon. Since he wasn’t walking as much anymore, he could wear his jeans and enjoy having proper trousers for a short time without risking his bandaged leg bleeding on them. “Are you meditating, perhaps?”  
  
“I’m listening to music.” Mohamara looked down at the braided cathay and gestured to the ebony clips resting on his ears. “These play music directly into my ears from the slate. If I didn’t have them on, it could play for all of you and in the future, that’s considered rude.”  
  
“Well in the sensible past, having music to pass the time would be much appreciated.” The cathay man seemed annoyed that Mohamara had not volunteered the information sooner. “If you don’t mind?”  
  
The tojay held the slate close to his chest and looked away while his face gradually reddened. “Um. My taste in music might be… something not everyone in the caravan would like.”  
  
“Are they tawdry? Songs of lustful conquests by future men and women we will have to imagine?”  
  
One of the cathay women, whom Mohamara knew to be sleeping with Ma’randru-jo for a week thenabouts, bapped the braided man in the back of the head. Which was good because Mohamara didn’t want to have to throw a shoe at the man.  
  
“No.” Mohamara held his ears flat but pointed away from his skull. It was a bit of body language he’d picked up from the cathay to mean ‘stop talking about this’. “I don’t have sex songs on my slate. At least… I don’t think any of them are about sex.”  
  
But others of the caravaneers who were walking with the wagons had come by to ask about music. Some asked if he had local songs, others wanted songs he suspected were from Elsweyr. But the more he was pestered, the more Ma’randru-jo seemed to smirk at him.  
  
“Alright fine. They’re love songs, happy? I keep a lot of sappy romance music on this thing because I’m sad, lonely, and pathetic. _Is that the sort of thing you want to hear?_ ” The tojay lamented that his tail was too short for any of them to see how it was lashing about in annoyance.  
  
“...This one would like to hear love songs.”  
  
“Khajiit doesn’t mind romance!”  
  
“Anything to distract this one from the boring walk, please!”  
  
And of course, they wouldn't behave like normal people. They were Khajiit, normal was anathema to them. Defeated, the tojay unclipped the earpieces and slid them back into the slate. “What sort of love song does the crowd want, then?”  
  
The most common thing he heard was ‘songs about distant love’, which he sadly admitted made sense. Most of the caravaneers had families back Elsweyr that they were feeding with this work. So he flipped through the lists for such songs.  
  
He led with a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcc6laz8BAo) about love that endured longer than the concept of time itself, from a moving portrait he’d seen as a child and kept the song in mind when he’d gotten a slate. From there, he started to work up a retinue with appropriate music and let it play automatically. Time pollution from fourteen different Eras sang out onto the mountainous valleys of the Reach.  
  
“Ja’khajiit, if company is what you require, there are many among the caravan who would court you.” After the music had stopped, Ri’saad had slowed his walking to travel apace with Mohamara’s wagon.  
  
The tojay didn’t even get flustered about it, which surprised even him. “No, there aren’t. And even if they were, it’s not my people’s way to do flings.”  
  
Ri’saad and a great many of the cathay bachelors walking or driving carriages gave Mohamara confused looks. “Ja’khajiit, the Khajiit people most certainly _do_ do ‘flings’.”  
  
“But Meridians don’t.” Mohamara flicked his ears backward and against his skull, agitated that the caravan’s communal nature had wormed into this area of his life. “Every Meridian community has a matchmaker, who watches the children as they grow up and pairs them with someone who would be a good match. If there isn’t a matchmaker available, it’s up to the parents to find a marriage for their children.” A small degree of venom edged into Mohamara’s voice as he talked. “My parents won’t be born for thousands of years, and I don’t know how long I’m going to be here. Sheo… Skooma Cat could decide to end his vacation at any time.”  
  
“And if he leaves without you?” Ri’saad’s body language and tone made no indication of the venom Mohamara was directing toward him. For one so old, perhaps he had seen this play out before.  
  
“Then I deal with that when it happens if it happens. And don’t give the Skooma Cat ideas on how to be crueler than he has already--if you don’t mind.” The tojay laid back on top of the wagon, where Ri’saad could no longer see him.  
  
There was a short period of no talking by Ri’saad or any of the walkers, before the cathay woman driving the wagon turned around to Mohamara. “You have no… ‘match’ waiting for you back in the future?” She seemed confused for a second by the words as she asked. “Forward in the future?”  
  
“My matchmaker told me that past the age of fifteen the odds of a good match went down to around two percent.” Mohamara put the hood of his jacket up to create some form of barrier between him and the cathay who asked. “So if I wanted to risk being matched with a spousal abuser, or something else awful like that I could keep on or I could just settle on being single the rest of my life. Guess which one I picked?”  
  
“Fifteen is so young to be married, though. You barely know who you are as a person by then.” Ri’saad took the cue to interject into the conversation again.  
  
“Guess that’s just something we fuck up as time goes on, eh?”  
  
“Aw, sonnie. If you wanted me to pick someone for you… ya just had to ask.”  
  
Mohamara’s blood froze in his veins as he noticed a white-haired white-eyed Nord walk past the cart. When the tojay moved to get a better look, the Nord was gone.  
  
“Now you said you _don’t_ want any spousal abuse? Feh, I’m going to go out on a limb and say you don’t want any of the other fun nuances either.” Sheogorath was seated alongside the cathay woman driving the wagon, writing something down on a roll of paper with a sausage-shaped pen. It could have potentially have been just a normal sausage. “I should really talk to your uncle Sanguine about this--he’s so much better at this sort of thing than I am. Wait!” The Mad God turned and grinned down at the tojay. “How would you feel about being matched with your uncle Sanguine, eh?”  
  
Mohamara started to scoot away from the demented Daedra as his fur began to stand on end. Sheogorath’s smile wilted when he got no reaction from the Khajiit.  
  
“Ah, you’re right. You’re too much of a stick in the mud for him, anyway. But don’t worry, I still love ya to pieces. Thankfully Haskill knows how to put mortals back together or we’d have had some _problems_ when you were a baby.” He pointed the sausage--it was a normal sausage--at the Khajiit, and wagged it. “And no matter what Haskill says, I most definitely did not try to eat your legs when you were two days old.”  
  
Mohamara started to creep down the side of the wagon but found Sheogorath waiting for him on the road when he started to walk, using a flower to write on an orange this time.  
  
“I also see you haven’t used that present I got ya, but that’s alright. It waited a few thousand years for you, a little while longer won’t do it no harm.” The Mad God took a moment to ruffle the tojay’s hair through his jacket hood. “But! Go to Solitude. Become a bard. That’s an order.”  
  
Sheogorath’s words felt like an iron chain wrapping around Mohamara’s neck.  
  
“What do you _want_ with me?” Mohamara whisper-hissed to the Mad God who once more could not be seen by anyone but him. “I get that you’re all about driving mortals mad, but this isn’t driving me insane it’s just giving me heart problems.”  
  
Sheogorath actually looked _hurt_ by Mohamara’s words. “Oh. You haven’t… put it together yet. I’d hoped you could see the connection given that whole Mysticism thing you got going.”  
  
“You know perfectly well that _actually seeing_ the bonds is something that only masters can do. Since you’ve been stalking me since I was a baby, you should _know better_.”  
  
The hurt expression became a glare, and suddenly Mohamara remembered he was talking to a Daedric Prince who could turn him into cheese. Or a woman’s beard. Or into seven notes of music if he cared to.  
  
“I’ll let that slide since you’re very obviously in need of company, lad. But do watch your tone. Or have your tone watch you, I really don’t care. Since you’re not bright enough to see the connection, I’ll spell it out for you, mortal.” Sheogorath’s pen became a knife, which he used to slash at Mohamara’s face just below the eye, then handed the know bloody implement over to the Khajiit.  
  
In his hand, the knife became a manilla envelope which opened on its own. There was a lot of incredibly complex technical information that Mohamara suspected were actually instructions for an outdated music player. But at the bottom was a box circled three times in red.  
  
‘Paternity Test: Positive.’  
  
“The results are in, and would you look at that? _I’m the father!_ ” Sheogorath scooped up the shellshocked tojay and hugged him so hard Mohamara couldn’t breathe.  
  
“Ja’khajiit, how are you levitating?”  
  
\--  
  
Ri’saad didn’t like that Sheogorath had ordered Mohamara to go north to Solitude, Mohamara could tell by the way his tail went immediately to thrashing about with no warm-up period. He took the news about the 'paternity test' about as well as Mohamara had--that is to say with defeated resignation. But the orders of ‘Skooma Cat’ were not to be ignored, so the elder cathay sent riders well ahead of the caravan to relay a message to someone called ‘Ma’dran’.  
  
It was explained later that Ma’dran was one of Ri’saad’s lieutenants, who ran a route from Windhelm to Solitude and back. Normally the two caravans wouldn’t meet due to scheduling, but Ri’saad hoped to catch Ma’dran’s caravan approaching Dragon Bridge. If possible, he would just send Mohamara ahead with a rider and hope for the best.  
  
Word that the tojay was leaving spread so everyone who had questions or requests to make of Mohamara or his slate pestered him in the days following.  
  
The riders returned with bad news--Ma’dran had already departed Solitude and was passing Whiterun. Thus a decision had to be made that Ri’saad didn’t like one bit: Mohamara would stay with the caravan until they reached the road north, where Mohamara would be sent with a rider to Solitude.  
  
“That seems perfectly fine to me,” Mohamara offered when the elder Khajiit emphasized how much he disliked it. “As long as it doesn’t put the rider at risk going there. I can live on my own for a while.”  
  
“No, ja’khajiit. There are _Thalmor_ in Solitude.” Ri’saad’s droopy face almost seemed animated by the topic. “They will try to snatch you again. Then the problem becomes what if a Nord decides to knife you while in the city? This one has lost riders and messengers to fools like them, even in the most hospitable of cities.” Ri’saad talked with the guards of the caravan to see if any of them could be away from the group long enough to help Mohamara.  
  
Said tojay was sick of all the taking he was doing from the caravan, and no give so ducked out of Ri’saad’s tent and went around back. Once he was sure none of the people inside would be able to hear, he took some steps away and assumed the general prayer position. One bent knee on which clasped hands would rest with his forehead on top.  
  
“Lord Sheogorath…. Dad. I could use a little help to best follow your orders. So. Um. Help?”  
  
Sheogorath’s response was swift, direct, and his usual brand of unusual. Mohamara keeled over in writing pain suddenly and found the cause to be a three-pointed Daedric spear almost twice Mohamara’s height in its length. The centermost and largest point had impaled the tojay through the foot he had been kneeling on. Affixed to the spear was a large piece of paper which read: ‘It summons atronachs, and reflects spells. Should help you out plenty. --Marianne’  
  
And while the presence of the Daedric weapon did seem to mollify Ri’saad’s misgivings about sending Mohamara off on his own, the injury to the tojay had absolutely incensed the elder Khajiit more than had been seen properly. Mohamara had to promise not to solicit help from the ‘Skooma Cat’ again.  
  
Fortunately, Mohamara’s original introduction to the caravan had brought to light the need for healing potions so he only had to spend a day and a half bedridden again. It would still need a healer to look at and fix the broken bones in his foot, but at least he could use the spear as a walking stick. It was oddly fortunate that the spear had impaled the foot on his bad leg anyway.  
  
The caravan stopped for a day outside the town of Karthwasten to sell and buy from the locals before starting eastward to Whiterun Hold. All too soon it came time for Mohamara to ride north with a cathay, possibly to not see the caravan again in a long time. Or at all, if the vacation ended. There were no tearful goodbyes, mostly it was the cathay nagging him to look after himself and to stop getting so badly injured all the time.  
  
And then he was off. He had to ride in front of the cathay rider escorting him because behind would land him sitting on the poor man’s tail. The offer to shove Mohamara into one of the saddlebags was always there if he got uncomfortable.  
  
It only slightly worried the tojay that he could legitimately fit into the saddlebags. Secondary school had taught him there were a large number of containers he could fit in. Most of them required the fire department to get him back out, though.  
  
At least it got a few bullies expelled.  
  
The dragon bridge was just as he remembered it being, though made of stone and not metal. After airships became the premier mode of transport, the bridge had fallen into disrepair until it fell apart in an earthquake. The rebuilt bridge was then made from metal to serve as a tourist attraction and local landmark.  
  
But what made him want to stop and take a break was a mountain he remembered: Kilkreath. His cathay escort had been hesitant about stopping so close to Solitude, but Mohamara pulled the ‘adorable eyes’ trick and got the man to relent.  
  
It was so… strange that the temple of Meridia was so small. The only thing that told it apart from other Nord ruins was the Lady’s winged statue atop the roof. The entrance to the temple was barred from the inside, so he couldn’t enter in--that left climbing up to see the statue himself.  
  
It wasn’t the same statue he’d grown up with. Meridia’s statue was second only in size to Azura’s in all of Skyrim. But it still had the smaller clasped hand figures that would hold the beacon that would connect all the faithful in Skyrim to the Lady.  
  
At least it would if the beacon was present.  
  
After a cursory look for perhaps a container in which the beacon had been stored, Mohamara had to accept that it wasn’t there. So all the times he’d been praying to Meridia since arriving had been in vain--without the beacon, she could not hear him due to Martin Septim’s barrier. It acted as a sort of sigil stone in that way.  
  
He tried to follow the sympathetic bond from the statue to its beacon but found that the magic pulled sharply east and south. Eastmarch, he realized after putting the tug of the bonds to his escort’s map. The beacon was somewhere in Eastmarch. It would have to be retrieved as soon as he was done following Sheogorath’s orders--lest the Mad God visit an unpleasant fate on him.  
  
Meridia would understand, she had an eternity to wait.  
  
Didn’t she?  
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So begins the Bard's College questline.


	7. The Cat that Sings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cat's don't sing! But maybe they can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the time y'all finish this, you can probably guess what was in the box.

  
\---  
**Chapter 7: The Cat that Sings**  
  
Solitude, known historically as Haafingar, was one of the most beautiful cities in Skyrim. Even in ancient times when the fortress city was primarily built of drab stonework that borrowed heavily from Cyrodiil, Mohamara could see the city he would come to know in sixteen thousand years’ time.  
  
Perhaps that spoke poorly of Solitude, then. Markarth would grow to be the capital of the province in time, to be a center of industry and the dominant culture in all of Skyrim. But if Solitude in ancient times even passingly resembled Solitude in the Twenty-First Era, did that mean that the city would never be greater than it was? The sympathetic magic of Solitude was less tangled, but also less noticeable. Either the bonds simply didn’t exist, or they were so fine his skills weren’t sufficient to detect them.  
  
At the top of a rather steep hill were the Solitude gates. Made of iron and steel, and artfully done they cast a far more inviting appearance than Markarth. The guards who stood watch furthered the separation by having red in their armor and their sigils. Solitude was symbolized by the wolf’s head, where Markarth had been the ram’s horns.  
  
Mohamara’s cathay escort ran him through strategies of what to do if certain situations came up. Someone trying to rob him, kill him, or other unpleasant things were okay to stab or lob spells at. For everything else, he was to try a guard first. Nobody was to be completely trusted once he got into the city, according to the cathay. Especially not any Khajiit seen in the company of Thalmor--the High Elf government’s dominant political party at the time.  
  
Once they had ridden up to the gates, Mohamara hopped down and leaned on the spear Sheogorath had given him while his backpack was removed from the saddlebags. Then he watched the cathay ride back down the road to the caravan with a strange feeling of wistfulness.  
  
But! There was work to do, and Daedra to appease. So the Khajiit hobbled his way over to the Solitude gate and found himself _not_ being stopped by the guards at all. In fact, the guards came to help the tojay open the thick iron doors.   
  
“Welcome to Solitude,” one of the guards said in a clearly well-rehearsed tone. “Capital of Skyrim, home of the Legion. Enjoy your stay.”  
  
“If you need someone to look at that bad leg, talk to Freir at the Temple of the Divines,” the other added as Mohamara hobbled through.  
  
The tojay turned to look at the more informative guard, and did his best to turn up the ‘adorable eyes’. “Which direction is the temple, sir?” For his effort, Mohamara had the temple’s general direction indicated to him which then became his direction.  
  
Which unfortunately took him past a public execution. A Nord man was to face the headsman’s ax, for collaborating in the murder of the local king from what had been said. However, there were some Nord children attending that wanted to see the action but were in the process of being driven off by their parents. Mohamara immediately knew the danger he was in and attempted to hobble away faster, but it was not to be.  
  
“Look, why don’t you go help that Khajiit boy get where he’s going? Bet he could tell you all sorts of stuff about living in the caravan.”  
  
Mohamara wanted nothing more than to be able to spear with speed the neck of the frustrated father who had foisted his child on the crippled cat. But in short order he had two Nord children and a Redguard boy all up in his grill, asking so many questions because they assumed he too was a child. Some of the questions, such as ‘where’s your tail?’ cut deep.  
  
“My dad gave me the spear, for protection while I was in Solitude,” Mohamara answered them while he started up the series of ramps that led to Castle Dour and the attached temple. Hobbling up a slope was significantly difficult he found as he quickly fell backward and was caught by the Nord girls.  
  
“Wow, you’re so light!” One of the girls, who identified herself as Minette, commented to Mohamara’s horror. She was a brunette girl who had commented her family owned the local inn. “Even with that backpack on I think I could pick you up all by myself.”  
  
The other Nord girl promptly let go, and Minette’s guess was proven true. “Dang, your family must not feed you right.” The Redguard boy commented with a chuckle. “Too poor to afford food or something?”  
  
“Yes, actually.” Mohamara had found that when people asked stupid questions meant to make him angry, agreeing with them put them off their game. Such was the case with the Redguard boy, who had no idea how to respond, and now had two Nord girls calling him out on being ‘mean’. “Could you help me up these ramps? The guards said I could go to the temple to get a healer.”  
  
“Oh yeah, sure.” Minette had no trouble catching Mohamara any time he started to fall backward from walking on the ramp, and the second Nord girl would often help with pushing him up the steeper ramps. “Why aren’t your folks here to help?”  
  
“Mom’s not around, and dad’s… he’s sorta gone crazy. I was staying with my grandpa for a while when pa told me to come to Solitude.”  
  
The Nord girls and even the Redguard boy then started a chain of mostly inane questions about caravan life, which Mohamara answered to appease them. The Redguard boy, going by the named Kayd, found it profoundly amusing that Mohamara’s leg had been messed up by a bear trap and being stabbed.  
  
Castle Dour lived up to its name; bleak, uninteresting, and far too serious. Thankfully from the courtyard inside the curtain walls, Mohamara was pointed to the temple of the Divines. From the victorious cheers from down below, it seemed the execution was over with, so the children abandoned Mohamara as quickly as they’d come over to him.  
  
“That Minette’s a sweet girl, hope she grows up to kick Kayd in the dick,” the tojay muttered to himself while he hobbled to the temple doors.  
  
Inside were rows of pews flanking a long carpet that stretched from the doors to the alcoves where shrines of the Eight Divines were set up. A ninth alcove stood empty--perhaps for cleaning? Mohamara rather liked the effect of the light streaming in from long, narrow windows at the top of the alcoves. Imperial basilica designs were good for that sort of thing--which was why he liked going to Dawnguard for Temple before the Meridian community had been shoved out.  
  
It also helped that Riften had a better community than Kilkreath--fewer hoity-toity folks looking down on people for showing up to Temple in anything but picture perfect fashion.  
  
No priests or priestesses were visible so Mohamara hobbled his way to the front line of pews to sit and wait. As a stranger, a clearly armed stranger, someone would eventually come to talk to him.  
  
“Blessings of the Divines upon you, child.” A balding, red-headed Nord in orange robes was the first one to greet Mohamara after close to ten minutes of waiting. “What brings you to this holy place on this joyous day?”  
  
Mohamara kicked out his bad leg, to let the scars from the bear trap and the heavy bandaging around his foot speak for itself. “The guards said I should speak to a… Freir?”  
  
The Nord priest bent down to examine the tojay’s leg, turning it and applying pressure to the spot where his metatarsals were broken to judge the injury. Compared to the bear trap and having his tail bitten off, all other pain seemed paltry. “Yes, this looks like it hasn’t healed properly. And this foot injury is in dire need of treatment.”  
  
“The last healers I had look at it were at the temple of Dibella in Markarth, they gave me this to try and fix it more.” Mohamara took off the regeneration ring and handed it to the priest.  
  
The man squinted at it and sadly shook his head. “I think we need to ask someone from the temple of Kynareth to go out to Markarth and teach those Dibellan priestesses how to heal properly. You are not the first person to come here because they could not treat their injured.” He stood and handed the ring back. “I will go and fetch Freir, she will examine you and start the healing process.”  
  
The priest departed, then quickly returned with two priestesses, a Nord and an Imperial. The Nord woman knelt down to examine Mohamara’s bad leg and tsked when she finished looking at the bear trap scars. “The bone was twisted when they healed it--it’s going to require rebreaking before we can set it and heal the injury properly.” She looked up to the Imperial priestess and pointed out of the temple. “Go to Beirand’s forge and ask for a strong hammer, or have Beirand himself come. This is going to be painful, but we should be able to fix you up perfectly fine.” The last part was said to Mohamara.  
  
The tojay had his ears flat on his skull and decided that he needed to learn healing magic of his own if he wanted to stay alive in the Fourth Era. Relying on priesthoods for healing was turning into the equivalent of trusting a medical intern.  
  
Having his shin rebroken hurt about as much as was expected, but the burly blacksmith who did the job made sure to strike in the right spot so that it was only the mishealed portions that broke. The bone being set hurt far worse than the initial bear trap had, and the high priest of the temple--the balding Nord man who answered to Rorlund--found himself stunned by the sheer volume of curse words Mohamara knew.  
  
But the priestesses were fantastic healers. After a few minutes of having shining golden light shoved into his leg and foot, they were confident everything was completely healed. They asked him to test the load-bearing capabilities of the recently broken leg, and of course, Mohamara had to go overboard--by balancing on his bad leg while leaning forward until he had to physically hold up the robe to remain decent.  
  
“Alright, looks like you’re all fixed up. And with balance like that, perhaps you might be able to learn dance at the bard’s college when you’re older.”  
  
“I’m not a child, I’m twenty years old. I just happen to be short.” Mohamara informed the priestess while he put on his other shoe.  
  
The Nords made indulgent faces, which Mohamara could understand. In the Nord’s country, it was hard enough to get them to see other sides of racial issues before factoring in the nuances of race.  
  
“Could you tell me where the bard’s college is, by the way?”  
  
“Alright, little Khajiit, but they’ll turn you away when you get there. Just head out to the Avenues district, there’s a large building with a sign. Can’t miss it.”  
  
With his leg back in working order, Mohamara had the freedom to move _far_ faster than he had before once he was outside. He could physically jump over slow people on the road, get over garden walls to make shortcuts, and even used the spear as a pole-vault to get around a wagon stuck in the road.  
  
The bard’s college was a large stone building only a few rows of houses away from the magnificent Blue Palace. Three floors tall, with the most prominent feature being the absolutely enormous courtyard that transitioned into a pseudo-amphitheater near the city wall. The porch connected to the second floor while the street connected to the first--perhaps it was actually a basement?  
  
Either way, Mohamara made his way up to the most decorated door which happened to be the one connected to the courtyard.  
  
The inside of the bard’s college was filled with dappled light from the strange glass in the windows, sort of wavy and uneven. The result was a beautifully decorated interior became even more so with how the weather outside adjusted the sunlight coming in. Somewhere, someone was burning peppermint incense.  
  
In a seating area next to the door was a High Elf, one of the rare ones that took to growing a beard, dressed in royal blue quilted clothes similar to what Ri’saad’s usual outfit consisted of. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, noticed the spear and craned his neck to see who held it before Mohamara coughed and drew his gaze downward.  
  
“Oh, hello young man,” the High Elf greeted in a gravelly voice--as if he had been a smoker in his youth. “Welcome to the bard’s college, are you perhaps here for a delivery?”  
  
“No, I’m here to enroll.” Mohamara wagged the spear a bit when the High Elf started to chuckle. “I’m not a kid, alright? I’m just _short_. You got anyone in here who knows Khajiit? Ask them about the tojay.”  
  
“As a matter of fact, I believe our dean of histories spent a few years in Elsweyr. I will consult with him, take a seat young man.” The High Elf stood with a pained grunt that spoke of arthritis and walked around a corner passed the front door.  
  
Obediently, Mohamara sat on one of the wooden benches that the seating area provided. Because a proper sofa in Skyrim was completely unrealistic. His large ears picked up the High Elf speaking with someone with a Reach accent before two sets of feet started to approach. The High Elf rounded the corner with a Breton in similar clothes to the elf, but in earth tones, and sporting a bizarre hat that would have been conical if it could stand on its own.  
  
“Goodness me, a tojay!” The Breton’s face, creased with lines to indicate middle age, positively lit up when he saw Mohamara. “And… the Spear of Bitter Mercy?!” His lit up face became positively ecstatic when the seven-foot-long spear was focused on. “I thought for sure that museum in Morrowind would never part with it.”  
  
“So that’s what it’s called.” Mohamara didn’t feel the sympathetic magic in the spear change any from him knowing its name, which to him indicated that the item wasn’t self-aware enough to register it _had_ one. “I know it better as ‘don’t frivolously ask Sheogorath for help’.”  
  
Mohamara speaking seemed to terribly startle the Breton, who lost all his excitement as quickly as it had come. He looked at the High Elf and Khajiit for a moment before taking the High Elf back around the corner.  
  
“That’s _definitely_ a tojay, but I have some concerns, Headmaster.”  
  
“But is he a child?” The High Elf’s priorities were almost where Mohamara could respect him for. “If not, your concerns need to be severe to keep me from giving him a place in the college.”  
  
“Tojay don’t grow to be much bigger than a six-year-old human, so he’s probably fully grown. But they have this _very specific_ accent, only found in the Tenmar Forest. That man in there is talking like he was born here, in Skyrim.”  
  
Mohamara tucked that information away in his mind--he was even more of a freak than he had previously thought.  
  
“Giraud, that’s _hardly_ a concern. There have been Khajiit in Skyrim for almost a thousand years--by logical deduction, some of them had to have children here, and some of them had to have been tojay.”  
  
“No, the tojay have a special role in the Khajiit society. They’re sort of priests but also related to moon sugar in some way that even I don’t fully understand. When I was in Elsweyr, Khajiit mothers who had tojay children had to make long pilgrimages to the Tenmar Forest and give their child up.”  
  
“I’m _still_ not hearing concerns worth withholding admittance.”  
  
“Well, how about that the Spear of Bitter Mercy is an artifact of the Mad God, we live a stone’s throw away from Pelagius’ palace, and with a tojay that acts _nothing_ like a tojay in our midst could mean he’s actually a madman?” A long pause stretched out, where Mohamara could only imagine the facial expressions being exchanged. “There? You see?”  
  
“...A test, then? We keep him around for a bit and see if he’s stable enough to attend classes. Perhaps ask him to keep the spear locked up in his quarters or something. Even if he _is_ mad, we aren’t getting as many new students as we used to.”  
  
“There is also the Thalmor problem, but I have someone in the Legion’s administration office that can keep them from finding out about this. I hope.”  
  
“Good, I don’t want them snooping around our premises again.” The Headmaster and ‘Giraud’ turned the corner once again, their faces a mask of professionalism. “Hello again, sorry about that. We--”  
  
“In the interest of being completely and utterly honest with you two: I heard everything you said.” Mohamara plucked at his enormous red-backed ears. “You need to be at least twenty to thirty feet away next time.”  
  
The Headmaster’s face was frozen mid-word like he was wearing a mask capturing the precise moment. Still wearing the expression, he slowly turned to Giraud who had a moment of realization and rubbed the back of his head.  
  
“That would have been helpful to know, wouldn’t it, Giraud?”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara was given a bedroll and tall wardrobe in the students quarters in the basement, even though he was not technically a student yet.  
  
They had given him a ‘probationary’ position with the college whose duties basically boiled down to being a janitor and kitchen helper. The Spear of Bitter Mercy was kept locked up in the tall wardrobe out of necessity, it was the only container in the entire college that could hold ie, even diagonally.  
  
He stayed out of the way of the four students as they went about their days--most of them were nice and would offer to help move heavy furniture so Mohamara could clean behind them when they saw him struggling. They were Illdi, an insecure Nord woman who seemed to care too much what people thought of her, Jorn, a Nord man who was an absolute sweetheart and proud Empire supporter with the intent to join the Legion, Ataf, a Redguard man who was aggressively eager to please, and Aia Arria, an Imperial woman who was both incredibly haughty about her skills and in possession of skills worthy of being haughty.  
  
The staff were… less pleasant. The Headmaster, Virarmo, was distant but as the arbiter of Mohamara’s position in the college, the tojay frankly wanted him that way. Giraud, the dean of histories, frequently asked alarmingly specific questions about Khajiit that Mohamara never had an answer he liked. Inge Six-Fingers, because she had additional fingers not less, was the second oldest member of the college staff and a proper harridan of a woman--direct, to the point, and clear that she vehemently disliked her students. Pantea Ateia, the vocalist instructor, was visibly the richest member of the staff and had the same haughtiness that Aia did--but Aia had more skill and everyone Mohamara talked to knew it.  
  
The last member of the staff was the cook he assisted, Bendt, an elderly Breton man who was perfectly pleasant so long as Mohamara followed instructions and did tasks on time.  
  
All in all, the experience of being the bard’s college janitor was rather like growing up in Kilkreath temple--lots of chores, little promise of reward, but respect for a job well done. It helped that Mohamara’s ability to jump high and navigate narrow ledges let him get to the very tops of the highest rooms for cleaning without disturbing a lesson with a ladder.  
  
After a week or so, he felt comfortable enough with the staff and students to bring out his slate regularly. Most of them found it odd that he asked them to stand still and smile while holding it up, but when he later presented them a portrait burned onto leather or paper it improved their moods--except for Inge. She was allergic to happiness.  
  
So it came to pass that after the vocalist auditorium was done being used for the day, Mohamara brought the slate in with him to clean the floors, windows, chandeliers, and replace the candles. The auditorium was sound-proofed once the door in and out closed--surprising given Mohamara wouldn’t have thought soundproofing would be invented for several thousand years. Perhaps it was one of those things that was discovered, lost, then rediscovered?  
  
Either way, once he closed the door he set the slate up somewhere where it could carry well and set it to play a song to distract him while he worked. One of the rare non-love songs he had in his library, for it was Sundas and he wanted to sing a hymn to Meridia. It was one of the oldest hymns to Meridia in recorded history--dating back to the Second Era when the faith frequently had to pass as being followers of Mara to even approach open worship of the Lady. For this purpose, a portmanteau of the two goddesses’ names was created: [Maria](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M3z6XCug_W8). The faithful thus became known as the ‘Friends of Maria’.  
  
The Marans, when this was discovered, by and large, had no problems with it--or so Mohamara had been told.  
  
_”Hail holy Queen enthroned Above,”_ the tojay sang with the music as he swept the polished stone floors. Meridia was the Sun, she was Magnus, for no other star could equal her beauty or impact on the world. _”Oh Maria!”_  
  
  
Mohamara had no difficulty getting the floor swept and the dust piled up to be dust panned into a corner where it would then be moved to the hallway once he was done. The task of cleaning the windows with their caked on dirt kept Mohamara from singing for a short time, but soon enough he could join in on the hymn again. _”Our life, our sweetness, here below: Oh, Maria! Our hope in sorrow and in woe: Oh, Maria!_ ”  
  
While the cat climbed his way up the uneven stonework of the wall to get at cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling, a gentleman with a cane appeared in the room. A Nord with hair and eyes of milky white, and clothes of orange and purple. He soundlessly strode through the room to where the slate was and waved his hand over the device. Unnoticed by the tojay, the earpieces manifested on his ears, and the slate no longer broadcast to the room at large.  
  
“ _Aether and Nirn resound the Hymn, Salve Regina!_ ”  
  
The last thing the gentleman with the cane did while the tojay sang out into the room was go to the door, and open it wide. When the wooden and iron door hit the wall without a sound, he began to fade. It started with his toes and ended with his wicked grin.  
  
As the refrain of the song began, the words spilled out into the college. The students down in the basement’s meal area paused in their food to listen to the unfamiliar voice singing the unfamiliar song. Even Brendt stopped turning a pot of soup to listen. On the floors above, the staff roused themselves from their private meals to investigate the source.  
  
They found Mohamara, sitting on the chandeliers, knocking the old candles off so that he could put replacements on. Once he was done with one, he would swing it and leap to the next without breaking his hymn. He purposefully slowed down the candle replacement on the last chandelier to coincide with the final note of the hymn, as it was the last task he had to do and marked a record time for cleaning the room.  
  
By the time this had happened, the students had ascended the two flights of stairs to investigate as well. So when Mohamara looked down at long last he had nearly the entire building looking up at him. Atar and Jorn clapped a little, but seeing so many people and knowing they’d _heard him_ drove the cat to try and make himself as small as possible on the chandelier.  
  
Inge Six-Fingers glowered up at the cat, then smacked Viarmo in the shoulder to get his attention. “Not bad, but it woulda been better if he’d been training since he was four.”  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or maybe you can't. I'm not your dad, I don't make those kind of decisions for you.


	8. Tending the Flames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara starts the path to becoming a bard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief reminder that Meridia's iconography commonly features rainbows.

  
  
\---  
**Chapter 8: Tending the Flames**  
  
“Look, we’re not upset with you or anything, just come down.”  
  
“Headmaster, I brought the ladder like you asked.”  
  
“Hold on--dangit, he’s gone up the chain!”  
  
Mohamara had moved from the chandelier to the chain from which it hung until the ceiling was at his back whereupon he coiled around the anchor to make himself as small as possible. Below him, Virarmo, Giraud, and Jorn were trying desperately to get the cat to come down.  
  
But he knew this game--it was all an elaborate trick to get him down then out would come the heavy sticks for beating. And Mohamara was going to have _none_ of that.  
  
Viarmo was visibly frustrated while he watched Jorn set up the ladder and Giraud hastily fetch a broom for the Nord student. In short order, Jorn was at the top with the headmaster and dean of history holding it steady while Jorn poked at Mohamara with the broom.  
  
“Come on, little Khajiit, it was a nice song,” Jorn tried to sound reassuring even as he almost fell off the ladder from shifting his weight too much. “You’ve got a lot of talent, so if you come down maybe Aia can give you private lessons until you’re able to enroll?”  
  
“With a voice like that,” Viarmo cut in, “I’d be willing to consider early admittance. Maybe.”  
  
“See? Just… come down, already.” Jorn had taken to shoving the blunt end of the broom to try and wedge Mohamara away from the chain.  
  
Mohamara didn’t spit-hiss or growl--that would only make it worse if they caught him. He glanced at the door and saw that Inge Six-Fingers was standing outside, chatting with Pantea. With his tail so much shorter than normal, he could possibly make a break and not get caught.  
  
But his slate was on the complete other side of the room. And with music playing in his ears he couldn’t _think_ enough to get a route planned that would send him to the podium and the door without being caught. This became a severe problem when he noticed Illdi heading over to the podium.  
  
Time was running out--he had to think of a way to get out of the situation.  
  
This was rendered impossible by Illdi messing with the slate and setting the volume on the music to the maximum setting. With unbearably loud music playing in his ears, Mohamara had to relax his tight coil around the chain to take the earpieces off--how had he not noticed he was still wearing them? This provided Jorn the opening he needed to pry Mohamara off the chain entirely and catch the cat when he fell.  
  
Mohamara pocketed the earpieces, still blaring music so loud that Jorn was looking around for the source, but otherwise didn’t fight back when he was carried down the ladder. He’d been caught, any fighting back at that point would only make it worse.  
  
“There, glad to have you back down here.” Viarmo sighed with relief and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I thought we’d have to ask a guard to shoot you with a paralysis poisoned arrow or something if this didn’t work. ...What is that sound?” The High Elf started to look around for the source of the music, as did Giraud.  
  
“I heard it too, as soon as I caught him.” Jorn put Mohamara under his arm like he was carrying a bedroll or horsehide. “Maybe some magic?”  
  
“Perhaps it has something to do with this? It’s that drawing slate Mohamara has with him all the time.” Illdi came over to the group with the slate and turned to show it to the Headmaster. “I’ve never seen a picture that changes when you touch it, though.”  
  
Mohamara tried to wriggle free of the Nord, and reach for the slate but Jorn had been training to go into the Legion on graduating--he was the peak of fitness, so a thirty-pound Khajiit had no chance of getting free from his grip.  
  
“Strange….” Viarmo took the slate from Illdi and began to touch the screen. With every press, the music coming through the earpieces changed. “It definitely seems like it can control the sounds, but why are they so faint?”  
  
“Could--you please give that back?” Mohamara gave up on trying to escape and listlessly hung from Jorn’s arm while spoke. “You can only hear it at all because you set the volume so high it almost blew my ears out.”  
  
Illdi looked at the slate, then Mohamara and began to hastily apologize while her face turned slightly pink. Viarmo didn’t hand the slate back but turned it so that Mohamara could adjust the volume and put it into sleep mode. The last thing he needed was to wake it up and still have the maximum volume setting, or for people to go snooping through his files.  
  
“So, since I didn’t hear _this_ doing any singing, I’m going to guess it really was you doing that?” Viarmo looked back at the slate and seemed confused as to why it was only a blank screen that responded to no touches.  
  
“I just had the music playing in my ears… I guess… so that I could stay on the beat.” Mohamara, against his better judgement, looked up at Viarmo and clasped his hands to plead. “Look, I won’t do it again just--let me go? I’ll pack my things, get out of here in like ten minutes tops and--”  
  
“Now you wait just a minute, young man.” Pantea Ateia had entered the scene, absolutely cross with the tojay. “You will most certainly be singing again. I have too few students with even a shred of talent with it, and I refuse to lose a voice like yours.”  
  
Viarmo stood aside so that the blonde Nord could loom over Mohamara and properly menace the cat, while the students in attendance gave Atia a hurt look in the case of Illdi and disdain from Jorn.  
  
“But--it’s just caterwauling. I can only really sing in Temple, when there are other voices to cover up and--”  
  
Ateia made a sickened noise and cut him off with a hand wave. “I do not know _whom_ has fed you these lies, but I am the most famous singer in all of Skyrim--and _I_ say you have the making of greatness. You must be admitted to the college immediately, post haste.” She turned and made a beatific expression at Viarmo. “Don’t you agree, headmaster?”  
  
“I… uh, of course. Of course.” After a moment of stunned processing, Viarmo nodded at Pantea with conviction. “We will need to discuss the details later--but I want you to attend the afternoon classes. No arguments, young man.” From the way they were talking, Mohamara began to suspect they didn’t remember his name.  
  
He sagged, defeated and resigned to this long string of humiliation that was to follow. ‘Should have known better than to sing a hymn without a full choir covering it,’ he thought. ‘Shoulda made sure the damn door was closed--how could I be so _stupid?_ ’  
  
“Can I put him down now?” Jorn cut the silence that had developed after Viarmo’s decision. “He’s light, but his fur tickles.”  
  
\--  
  
Fortunately, the afternoon classes were those not focused on music--Mohamara did not look forward to humiliating himself again. It was stressful enough that Viarmo decided to hold his slate as collateral for attending the day’s courses. Giraud’s course on history and bardic poetry, as well as Ateia’s lesson on court matters, comprised the afternoon classes. The opportunity to learn more about Fourth Era history and beyond was a welcome opportunity.  
  
He could only stomach getting dirty looks from the local Imperial soldiers and some of Solitude’s citizenry for not knowing things like what the ‘Great War’ referred to, or what the ‘White-Gold Concordat’ was.  
  
There had been nearly seventy ‘great’ wars since the Sixth Era alone, and Mohamara had never been interested in learning ancient treaties. He’d learned practical things.

  
The Aldmeri Dominion, which Mohamara had never heard of, was the de-facto government over Alinor, Valenwood, and Elsweyr, with Hammerfell acting as a rogue state. Apparently, Alinor had been called the ‘Summerset Isles’ before the Thalmor rose to power, which Mohamara found ridiculous. The Dominion had seceded from the Tamrielic Empire and then gone to war with the same Empire--nearly winning. Cyrodiil had been absolutely eviscerated by the war, which Giraud pointed out could have influenced their decision to accept a lopsided peace deal: The White-Gold Concordat.  
  
Ateia’s lesson covered the process of reciting a work to a Jarl. She covered topics such as the way to stand when presenting different pieces or performing certain instruments. The drums, lute, flute, and vocal singing--each had their own special little ritual to be observed. Only the topic of poetry reading was passed over, as Ateia dismissed it as ‘Giraud’s duty’ to do so.  
  
Once the courses were over, Mohamara was the first one out the door and down the stairs. Partly to get away from the hideously uncomfortable looks Ateia and Aia were giving him the entire time and partly because there was still work to be done before the evening meals.  
  
Viarmo was not in his quarters when Mohamara went to collect his slate, but the slate itself was present… in a locked display case. A lock wasn’t any major obstacle--one of the novice level Mysticism spells he’d learned in college was how to lock and unlock a portal. But if he took it, Viarmo would likely assume Mohamara had picked the lock to do so.  
  
Suddenly, Mohamara realized he was overthinking the situation and simply unlocked the display case, removed the slate, and locked it back. He could tell them it automatically teleported to him after a set time or something--it was _his_ and he wasn’t going to leave it.  
  
After stowing away his slate, Mohamara dashed off to the kitchen to help Brendt get the meals ready. Getting an earful for going missing for hours on end was better than what Mohamara could expect the next day.  
  
Inge’s class was purposefully the earliest class in the college--starting hours before dawn. The lute was her department, and it was all she taught. Inge had no patience for Mohamara’s lack of familiarity with the lute and would strike his hands with a wooden rod when he couldn’t do as instructed. The other students got the same treatment to a lesser extent given past lessons, and afterward, Illdi advised Mohamara to invest in some padded gloves.  
  
After a lovely jazbay crostata breakfast, Mohamara was the first one into the vocalist auditorium to find a small space he could squeeze into, hide for the class, and claim he had attended. It was like that this plan had been anticipated, for virtually all the furniture had been removed from the auditorium leaving only the podium--which was too small for even Mohamara to squeeze into.  
  
“Good, you came early.” Pantea Ateia greeted the cat warmly when she arrived with the students half an hour later.  
  
Mohamara glared daggers at the back of her head while he sat in a corner, with his stub of a tail flicking in annoyance that none of the humans could read. ‘Just remember that Sheogorath is going to murder you if you don’t do this’, he told himself as the students looked at the empty auditorium in confusion. Murder was likely the least unpleasant thing the Mad God could do to him, but Mohamara didn’t want to think about those.  
  
“Before we begin our lesson in earnest, we will cover the basics for our newest voice.” Ateia gestured for Mohamara to approach, which the cat did with a mix of annoyance and hesitation. “There is no room for wilting flowers in my class, young man. Now stand up, back straight, and sing. No words, just your voice.”  
  
Defeated, Mohamara followed instructions and cleared his throat. He expected a scratchy caterwaul to come out when he tried to sing--it was what had happened every time before. Then the humans would laugh, and tell him how stupid he was to believe them.  
  
But that didn’t happen.  
  
What came out was… a comprehensible note. He didn’t hold it long because it startled him that such a sound came from his throat. But what was more startling was that he _recognized_ the sound. It was one of the three musical sounds that had come from Sheogorath’s present box.  
  
“See?” Ateia seemed almost less of a haughty shrew when she spoke to the stunned cat. “Part of that is the acoustics of this room, but the lion’s share is that voice. Aia,” Ateia suddenly snapped, “I want you to lead us in breath control exercises.”  
  
\--  
  
On the first day of Second Seed, a week after being officially admitted to the college, Viarmo finally found Mohamara in the student’s quarters with his slate. It was after classes had ended for the day, and when Brendt had sent Mohamara away--Inge’s hitting his hands had caused too many small cuts that he would risk bleeding into the food if he stayed.  
  
“I see you were able to retrieve that without my assistance,” the High Elf observed, as Mohamara quickly stuffed the slate into his backpack. “I had hoped it would give us the opportunity to talk in private. But this will do.” Viarmo sat down on the floor next to Mohamara’s bedroll--a cot still could not be provided for him, though an additional blanket had been found.  
  
The tojay, who had the idea to dress in his robes but put jeans on underneath to fight the impression he was basically wearing a dress, sat up and scooted away from the High Elf to give him more room. “What’s there to talk about, headmaster?”  
  
Viarmo was old, it showed in his movements up flights of stairs, how he could barely lift his arms higher than his pectoral muscles, and how he had to take a minute to breathe after sitting down on the floor. “Jarl Elisif has banned the burning of King Olaf--a little festival that the college puts on every year. I would like you to help me change her mind on that.”  
  
Mohamara had only heard of King Olaf as the architect of Dragonsreach palace--where the Jarl of Whiterun would rule before its destruction during the Twelfth Era. By dragons, as he’d heard it told. “And… how would I do that? I mean, I know Nord women tend to find me cute, but not _that_ cute.”  
  
Viarmo broke into weak laughter. “Ah, thank you. I needed that. But, back to the matter at hand. Elisif has banned the holiday because she is still in mourning for her husband--Torygg. It is my hope that if we can retrieve King Olaf’s verse, from the Poetic Edda, she will see the importance of the festival.” Viarmo let his words be processed by the Khajiit before he continued. “I’ve gathered the funds to hire a local adventurer to help retrieve the verse from the bard’s tomb--known now as Dead Man’s Respite.”  
  
“And you want me… to go with him?”  
  
Viarmo nodded. “Your clever retrieval of your… device makes me think that you might have certain… skills that the hireling might not.” When Mohamara stared blankly at him, Viarmo awkwardly shifted his head and shoulders. “I mean… you _are_ a Khajiit. And… have a way with locks.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears went flat against his head and his eyes narrowed at the High Elf. “You’re lucky that’s true--otherwise that would have been racist. I expect that sort of thing from the Nords, not from folks like you.”  
  
Once more, Viarmo was driven to laughter, stronger than before and it almost drove him to choke. “Oh. A joke. I thought you were serious.” He composed himself, and spoke again with his ‘serious voice’. “But it wasn’t just your skills that made me think you’d be a good fit. There’s that spear of yours--a powerful Daedric artifact. And, if you succeed it would do the most to help your career prospects as a bard since you’re still learning.” The High Elf made a tight-lipped face like he’d bitten directly into a lemon. “And if you failed… the college would lose the least amount of resources invested.”  
  
“My,” Mohamara responded, voice flat. “What a stunning display of confidence in me, headmaster. With you believing in me there’s no way I could say no.” The cat leaned against the long wardrobe where the Spear of Bitter Mercy lay and pondered. “This Dead Man’s Respite, it’s a tomb? Will the Nords get upset that I essentially went grave robbing?”  
  
“Oh no, no.” Viarmo emphatically shook his head. “Skyrim’s secrets protect themselves, and those tombs are full of Draugr so they’ll see it as sort of… cleaning up?”  
  
Mohamara’s ears picked up at the word ‘Draugr’. A type of undead that started as living people in the tombs who fed their life energies to a departed leader. Over the course of thousands of years, they lost their sentience and mummified themselves--while the leader they fed themselves to could rise up when provoked. But the most important part was that they were undead.  
  
And no self-respecting Meridian passed up the opportunity to destroy an undead.  
  
“Alright, I’ll get packed and be ready to leave within the hour.” Mohamara stood up and began to gather his things quickly.  
  
Viarmo seemed shocked that Mohamara had accepted, but took it in stride. Well, he stood then took it in stride. “Alright, the hireling should meet you at the Winking Skeever. Best of luck… um, Molamola?”  
  
Mohamara stopped and gave Viarmo a disbelieving look. “Mola mola is a type of Pyandonean fungus that tastes like rice bread, sir.”  
  
The High Elf slapped himself on the forehead and started to apologize before Mohamara shooed him out of the student’s quarters.  
  
\--  
  
Meanwhile, in the mind of a long-dead Madman, a Mad God and his host discussed things over a table laden with fine food and tea. The Mad God sat sideways in his immaculate throne, legs over one arm and resting his back on the other. He was dressed in a puffy bathrobe of orange and purple, with scamp-shaped slippers in the same color scheme, a mask of green gel across his face and his hair done up in colorful curlers.  
  
“What about this one, Pelly my dear? She looks boring enough for my boy, don’t she?”  
  
The madman crossed his arms and leaned forward to see the portrait of the Sload woman the Mad God had pulled from a small stack on his lap. “Her eyes are too far apart, she’d have to look at you from the side at all times. That’s unacceptable, and illegal in any case.”  
  
“Oh, you’re quite right. Should I report her to the guards then?”  
  
“See that you do.”  
  
“Haskill, Haskill where are ya, man?!” Sheogorath clapped his hands together, and a Breton man in a stylish black and red suit appeared as if he had always been there. “Haskill, these girls are entirely unsuitable for my purposes--see that they’re destroyed would you?” He passed the stack of portraits to the Breton man but paused and pursed his lips in consideration. “Wait, are we destroying the portraits or the girls? I can’t remember which.”  
  
“If you need to borrow my headsman, I suppose I could lend him to you,” the madman offered with a gentle incline of his head. “The man would probably enjoy seeing another block.”  
  
“Pelly my dear, you know I can’t deprive you of such an integral part of your court. Who else would help you dispose of all those people? Your wife?! Ha!” Sheogorath snapped his fingers and retrieved a slice of pie from the table. “Haskill, bring in the next stack.”  
  
“My lord,” the Breton man said as the portraits he had been handed turned to char and ash in his grip. “I’m afraid I must remind you that the young master will not find happiness with any of these women, no matter which lucky girl you decide upon.”  
  
“Aw, come on, Haskill! My boy might be a bit quick to talk back, but he still does as he’s told.” The pie was finished, it had sunk into Sheogorath’s hand like quicksand while he chewed, and he reached for another.  
  
“You’ll want to watch that,” ‘Pelly’ commented. “He could be setting up to overthrow you.”  
  
“Hmm.” Haskill did not seem to hold the same respect for the madman as the Mad God did, but made no comment on what company his Lord kept. “I’m afraid you’re missing a fundamental problem with all these women, my Lord Sheogorath.”  
  
The Mad God bit into an apple that still rested on the table some ten feet away, and considered his chamberlain’s words. “Hmmm, is it a big fundamental problem, or a small fundamental problem? Wait! Don’t tell me, I want ta’ guess.” Sheogorath spent a solid hour pitching random factoids about the women he had been considering, only for Haskill to shoot down each and every one with the patience of a saint.  
  
“My Lord, I’m afraid that the fundamental problem with these women that you’ve missed,” Haskill paused purposefully because he knew his Lord desired suspense to the reveal--for he had called forth popcorn specifically for the occasion. “Is that they are women.”  
  
Sheogorath tossed the bucket of popcorn he had conjured, spilling its contents and landing the empty bucket right onto Haskill’s head. The Mad God stood from his throne and paced back in forth in front of it. “You’re right, I should consider some horkers just to try and get that boy to laugh--his mother loved horker loaf, right?”  
  
“No, Lord.”  
  
“Oh right, we made her _into_ horker loaf.”  
  
“No, Lord.” Haskill took the popcorn bucket off his head and set it on the table. “Well, yes, you did, but that is not what I meant to inform you of.”  
  
“Well?! Speak plainly, man! Or speak planely, I always get a laugh out of the little propellers.”  
  
Pelly sighed and paused in eating his mammoth snout roast. “He’s saying your boy doesn’t like women in that way, you gigantic pudding.”  
  
Sheogorath’s outfit had changed so that he was now in the costume of a giant orange and purple blood pudding with his face sticking out. “Why thank you, Pelly, my dear, I’m so glad you noticed.”  
  
“Yes, I’m afraid that the young master’s preferences lie in the realm of men.” Haskill handed his pudding-bound Lord a sweetroll to nibble on. “Exclusively men.”  
  
“...He doesn’t like Elves? Well, I suppose he wouldn’t, would he? He always uses the lowercase ‘e’ when referring to them as a group.”  
  
Pelly sighed, long-suffering while Haskill serenely looked upon his Lord.  
  
“Alright, alright, I get what you’re saying. Shoulda expected it when we handed him off to the Rainbow Woman, shouldn’t’ve I?”  
  
“I cannot say for sure that Lady Meridia’s worship drives people toward fancying the same gender as themselves, Lord Sheogorath. But… the percentage of people who do would imply _some_ correlation.”  
  
“Well there’s only one thing left to do, isn’t there?” The pudding-bound Daedra bounced his way back into his throne. “Haskill, bring me a revised list of candidates! Pelly, my dear, I don’t suppose you would consider--”  
  
“I’m married, I’m dead, and I have far too much to do as-is without cleaning up the absolute _mess_ you’ve made of your offspring.” Pelly cut the Daedra off without so much as looking up from his tea.  
  
“Rude!”  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This just in, worshipping Meridia makes you gay. If you completed any of her quests, you're gay now. Them's the breaks.


	9. Dead Man's Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally something good happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Her charm is so contagious, vaccines have been created for it. Every time she goes for a swim, dolphins appear. She can speak Yoku... in Dwemeri.

Mohamara had been directed to meet with the adventurer at the Winking Skeever tavern, so he followed behind Jorn and Giraud went drinking that evening to find it. The tojay was, as was a common insult among Nords, a milk-drinker so he had no idea where the tavern was located beforehand.  
  
While he didn’t expect the authorities to test him for alcohol if he ever got back to the present, he knew from second-hand sources that some components of alcohol use could show up on drug tests for years afterward. Something about juniper berries, but Mohamara was foggy on details.  
  
Thinking about it reminded Mohamara how long it had been since he’d had a proper cup of High Rock Breakfast tea or some soda. If he had any talent with alchemy, perhaps he could have created some versions--but an awful childhood experience had taught him not to try alchemy _ever again_.  
  
He was lucky no one had been able to find out it was him that had done it--he didn’t want to go down in the history books as the creator of an airborne strain of gonorrhea at thirteen years old.  
  
The Winking Skeever was a massive tavern, built into the foundations for Castle Dour, two floors tall and all of stone. It looked like the same architects that had designed the Avenues District homes had designed the Skeever, a testament to how much money would have been needed to construct it.  
  
And it was nearly empty.  
  
Jorn, Giraud, a well dressed Argonian, and some merchants from the Wells District were the only people seated and drinking. The bartender looked visibly confused when Mohamara came in with a seven-foot-long spear but made no comment as the cat found a seat. Mohamara didn’t have much gold, but he felt he’d have enough for some milk if a barmaid came to take his order.  
  
Which they likely wouldn’t, since he appeared to be a child to the average uneducated Nord. Not at all helped by how he found himself kicking his legs as they hung from the too-tall chair.  
  
He waited a while for someone new to enter the tavern, that he could be certain was the adventurer. Most likely, it would be a Nord, younger than Mohamara and with a visceral disdain for magic given how people reacted when Mohamara asked about learning it.  
  
What a miserable time he was in, where Winterhold was the only institution of magical learning. Their tuition fees were just ludicrous. Four thousand septims just as an _application fee_? Ridiculous. Bromjunaar Academy hadn’t even been _thought of_ yet, it seemed.  
  
It was a pity, really. Morthal was just as magical as Winterhold and would go on to have a much less toxic atmosphere. Winterhold professors thought themselves untouchable, so they could do whatever, or whomever, they wished.  
  
But Mohamara was, and would always be a proud student of the Jorrvaskr School of Clever Works.  
  
Serendipitously, an [armored](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/tes-mods/images/3/3f/Nord_Mail_Light_-_Female.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20160422001859) figure strode into the Winking Skeever shortly thereafter. From the height, Mohamara would have guessed them to be a Nord, but he could see a bit of their chin and tusks under their metal helmet and their uncovered hands--the green hue of an Orc. On one arm was a round shield covered in Nordic knots with a pronounced boss at the center, and from their belt hung a war-ax.  
  
But what interested Mohamara the most was that they were wearing a leather jacket. Not in the style of the ancient Nords, but from his time. On the back was the stylized image of Wuuthrad, symbol of the Companions. The patches at the elbows and decorative studs on the shoulder stuck out to him--it looked almost exactly like Yagraz’s Companions jacket.  
  
For a moment, he dared to hope that it was her, but he bit down on his tongue before calling out to the stranger. Yagraz was sixteen thousand years away--and likely had no idea Mohamara was even _gone_. Hoping for foolish things was only going to make him miserable, so he tried to force it to stop.  
  
“I’m looking for someone from the bard's college, know any of them?” The stranger even _sounded_ like her. It was a female Orc, who spoke in a voice uncannily like Yagraz. She was pointed to Jorn and Giraud, but Mohamara stood up with his spear to intercept her on the way.  
  
“Um, excuse me. I’m the person from the college you’re looking for.” Mohamara quickly stood in the Orc’s way to get her to stop.  
  
She just stared down at him, utterly shocked. Perhaps she was surprised that the college would send a ‘child’ into a Draugr crypt?  
  
“Let’s get this out of the way first, not a kid, just short. Those guys from the college will back me up on this if you don’t believe me.”  
  
The Orc woman just stared at Mohamara for a moment before answering. “So… you’ve been in Solitude this whole time? Figured you’d be with one of the caravans.” She started to laugh, and by the gods, she even laughed like Yagraz.  
  
‘Maybe this is how Sheogorath drives me insane,’ Mohamara pondered. But he did not have long to ponder as the Orc woman crouched down and got on his relative eye level. With a smirk, she removed her helmet… to reveal a face in Yagraz’s spitting image. The little cat tried to process what he was seeing and the impossibility of it before the Orc spoke up again.  
  
“This isn’t a dream, you’re not going mad, and I’m not some ancestor that happens to look exactly the same. It’s me. I’m here.” She spread her arms wide, anticipating a hug. “It’s me, short-stuff. Yagraz, here to save the day.”  
  
Doubt is the path to reach faith, to abandon the path early is to forsake enlightenment and fall into hopelessness. For a long moment, Mohamara did doubt. But when confronted with his friend, and the overwhelming _hope_ that was growing in his chest, there was only one thing to do.  
  
Start crying in a full-on wail, and hug his best friend.  
  
“It’s alright, get it all out.” Yagraz returned the hug and easily picked Mohamara up to carry him out of the tavern before some stupid Nord decided to comment on the scene. “How in the Ashpit did you find a way to lose _more_ weight?”  
  
Mohamara, sobbing into her shoulder as they started out the city gates, responded in the only way a friend should: “I will fucking bite your nose off, I swear on Malacath’s backbone.”  
  
“I know, little buddy, I know.” Any time one of the guards or someone passing through the city gates gave the scene a puzzled look, Yagraz casually flipped them the bird. “Get all this mushy shit out so we can talk about how we both got here, huh?”  
  
The grossly sobbing Khajiit could only nod into her shoulder armor and brandish his spear blindly at an Imperial woman who dared scoff at the two friends.  
  
\--  
  
Yagraz had officially become the most badass person Mohamara had ever known. After he had been snatched by Sheogorath she pieced together what had happened from news reports, how everyone else on the ferry had gone full-on asylum level mad, and how Daedric oracles announced that Meridia was kicking the metaphysical shit out of the Mad God’s armies. Herself. In person. It made Mohamara feel warm and fuzzy inside that his Lady had gotten so enraged over his kidnapping.  
  
Yagraz had broken into Mohamara’s apartment, made sure the Companions would watch the place, grabbed a bunch of the Khajiit’s stuff and decided to go back in time after him.  
  
By Breaking the Dragon.  
  
She didn’t go into details but said that Malacath told her how to see the facets of time so she could strike them and create a hole through which to travel. While Mohamara had emerged in the Reach, she came out in the plains outside Whiterun city. Unfortunately, the method Malacath had taught her was exclusively for going _back_ in time.  
  
From there, she had joined the Companions of ancient Skyrim. And according to her ‘kicked the asses of every Nord and Elf that tried to tell her no.’  
  
After hearing Yagraz’s story of resounding success in ancient Skyrim--she even had a house in Whiterun--Mohamara was hesitant to share his side of things. But after she’d done all this for him, he told her anyway and let her laugh her ass off.  
  
“So, you really just ditched your clothes and _ran_ naked from those High Elf creeps?” The Orc woman snickered at the mental image. She was doing the talking for both of them, with Mohamara seated on her shoulders and resting his head and torso on her much larger head.  
  
“It was either that or bite them and I didn’t want to get elf flesh in my teeth,” Mohamara defended himself with a pout. “And if I’d been able to have trousers, it would have been fine.”  
  
“Well, that’ll be fixed soon enough. The stuff I grabbed from your place is at Breezehome right now. I got this guy watching the place for me, Brenuin. Bit of a drunk, but he and I get along fine. You’ll have to share a room with my girl, though.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears perked up, and he leaned down to look into Yagraz’s eyes upside-down. “Your girl?”  
  
“Yeah. I adopted a kid. She was just walking around Whiterun wasting away, so I took her in.” Yagraz grinned as only Orcs could, menacingly. “Been training her how to use a blade, throw a punch, and go for the eyes. For such a sweet thing she can get _mean_ in a fight.”  
  
“You’re both the best and worst mother figure she could ask for.”  
  
“And I’m sure you’re going to be the good uncle to try and teach her to act all _sappy_ and _civilized_.”   
  
Mohamara sat up and rested the back of his wrist on his forehead. “It’s a tough job, but I’ll rise to the occasion. Assuming Sheogorath doesn’t murder me for shits and giggles.”  
  
“Yeah.” There was silence between the two of them as Yagraz walked the road down from Haafingar to Hjaalmarch. “So. Finally met your dad, huh?”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
“Oh don’t you ‘hmm’ me, this whole situation is because of him, you could at least tell me how he really _is_.”  
  
Mohamara shrugged and rested the Spear of Bitter Mercy across his shoulders. “He’s exactly like how the books portray him. Violent mood swings, unpredictable, he’ll help and harm with the same sentence and he’s _insane_.” The Khajiit’s ears and whiskers drooped as he forced himself to admit the next bit of information. “And I might have mentioned the matchmaking thing where he could hear.”  
  
Yagraz’s walking stumbled and she had to hold her hand over her mouth not to burst into laughter. It lasted all of one minute before she was letting everyone in half a mile’s radius know how amused she was.  
  
“Yes, I’m glad that the rest of my life being ruined by a demented Daedra can amuse you. Really. So utterly happy.” Mohamara’s voice was flat but without venom. If Yagraz was in the same situation, he’d be laughing too.  
  
“Aww, short-stuff. Don’t worry, if it’s a bad match I’ll use the friend loophole to tear the bastard’s head off.” Yagraz directed a thumbs-up upward toward the cat.  
  
Mohamara squinted at the gesture. “And when he finds out that there is no such loophole, you’ll get turned into a porcupine or something.”  
  
“You mean _if_ he finds out.”  
  
The idea stunned Mohamara into a blank expression while he pondered her words. Sheogorath wasn’t like Jyggalag, he wasn’t omniscient. He hadn’t even known about Meridian matchmaking until Mohamara had talked about it. “If? If is good.”  
  
\--  
  
Dead Man’s Respite was built into a hill, with a considerable chunk of the stone carved back to create a series of wide flat areas joined by stairs. Nordic arches and pillars decorated the outer structure.  
  
And for defenders, there were two measly skeletons. At least it gave Mohamara his first chance to use the spear’s magic when Yagraz had to put him down to fight. An orb of Daedric fire appeared where Mohamara had arced a bit of magicka through the spear, and out of it emerged a massive ink-black blob that oozed over the skeleton to crush it.  
  
A tar atronach, it seemed. Yagraz dispatched her skeleton opponent with a shield bash, and afterward, they entered the tomb with the atronach following behind them.  
  
The inside of the tomb was alight with everburning torches and braziers. Works of Illusion and Mysticism, they embodied half of fire to provide light forever but were useless for cooking and did not fill the air with smoke. Mohamara was briefly struck by the idea to manufacture some and sell them to Skyrim’s nobility--they clearly had lost the means to produce such works, and he had the knowledge himself. It would only take lesser soul gems.  
  
The first room was lined with recesses in the walls, with a large altar-like table whereupon an ornament of red stone with three ruby claws lay. In some recesses were skeletons, some were empty, and some housed sleeping Draugr. Beyond the altar, there was a spiked gate blocking the way forward.  
  
And in full view of the two adventurers, the ghost of a Nord man strummed a silent lute. He made no effort to attack when Mohamara used his spear to try stabbing at the specter’s chest but did strike a disbelieving pose. Without a word, the ghost turned and walked further into the tomb, leaving Mohamara and Yagraz alone with the Draugr.  
  
These passive undead were easily dispatched by Yagraz and Mohamara. The cat directed the tar atronach to flow into the Draugr’s alcove and crush it with its weight, while Yagraz easily pulled them out and decapitated them before they could wake.  
  
Once the room was cleared, Yagraz picked up the claw and examined it. A weight plate underneath the ornament rose up, and the spiked gate withdrew into the ceiling.  
  
“Okay, if that hadn’t been the way in,” Mohamara chided, “that could have easily been a trap to kill the both of us.”  
  
“Nah.” Yagraz pointed around the room. “Ancient Nord traps are easy to spot. Pressure plate ones tend to be fire or poisoned darts. And both of those have clear nozzles you can see in the walls. Hey, is that a door?” In her pointing, Yagraz noticed a door of shiny black stone off to the side of the room which the adventurers then investigated.  
  
The tar atronach faded away during this, leaving only a sticky trail of black gunk leading into the tomb to indicate it had been there.  
  
The door had only hinges on the outside, meaning it swung inward by push. But when Yagraz tried, there was no response. “Think you can open this?”  
  
“Oh sure let me just use my advanced knowledge of Alteration to flow through the door. Wait, I only know Mysticism that well and they require _keyholes_ for that method.” Mohamara dodged the bap intended for him and started off toward the door.  
  
The formula from then was to go into a room, find the Draugr, and kill them quickly before moving on. Occasionally one would be capable of blasting frost magic but all that did was force Mohamara to pop the spear’s magic and blast it right back at them while summoning an atronach.  
  
Usually, the atronach would be something ridiculous that would die in two hits from a Draugr’s weapons. Chicken soup atronachs, yam atronachs, graphite atronachs. That sort of thing.  
  
The first major obstacle was a series of puzzle doors. Disks were placed in doorways, with gaps through which passage would be allowed if the correct chains were pulled in the correct sequence.  
  
And Mohamara was not in a mood to play ancient Nord games. So he delved into the sympathetic bonds of the tomb to find the Draugr hiding in various nooks and crannies, as well as below to get a rough idea of the layout of the tomb’s interior. All in all, it wasn’t too big but he detected a massive gathering of Draugr deeper in.  
  
Yagraz stood in front of the disk that blocked the entry deeper into the tomb abd while Mohamara ran through the halls pulling chains, killing the Draugr behind the other disks with an atronach or sparks spell until there was nothing left moving behind them.  
  
“You got some spider webs in your hair,” Yagraz pointed out moments before she shoved the cat directly into a spider web in their path.  
  
“You got some dirt on your nose,” Mohamara informed her as he stuck his spear out to trip her when she walked past him.  
  
The two had a nice laugh while they worked their way through the tomb. Mohamara found soul gems in the petty and lesser sizes on tables strewn through the halls and grabbed them when he could.  
  
All was well until they came to a room covered in frostbite spider webs. It had been the lair of two nearly adult frostbite spiders, but a flame atronach and Yagraz’s battle prowess proved to be the better. Then it was up to the two of them to work out how to proceed further, as there was no clear way down.  
  
While Yagraz examined the walls, Mohamara walked around feeling the sympathetic bonds of the tomb. There was strong magic below them, almost directly so, he just had to find it. He heard creaking steel when he put his foot down and realized what had happened. The spiders had webbed over the way down. So he had the flame atronach begin to burn away the webs with its fiery aura, revealing two metal grates. Mohamara happened to be standing over one that led into a pit filled with water….  
  
“Hey, I found a chain!!”  
  
...Right as Yagraz found the way to open it. The grate fell out from underneath the Khajiit and the atronach, and down they fell. The flaming elemental sank like a stone while the cat eventually bobbed up to the surface. He had to dive quickly to retrieve the spear, as it had escaped his grip in the fall. But this was made troublesome by the atronach’s fiery body heating the water to boiling temperatures quickly.  
  
Sometimes the natural fire cloak effect on flame atronachs was annoying. But once he found a tunnel out of the side of the pit, the atronach’s ambient heat helped to quickly steam dry his wet clothes--and those of Yagraz when she jumped down to join them.  
  
“So apparently these old crypts weren’t just tombs,” Yagraz informed Mohamara as she took the head off a spellcasting Draugr in the next room. “The ancient Nords used to live here, these were their homes. Each Nord tomb is actually the site of an old settlement.”  
  
“That sounds like the Nords alright.” Mohamara had bypassed the fight by pole-vaulting with the spear and ascending to a walkway above. “Turn their homes into crypts so they don’t waste space on graveyards.” He could see the bladed pendulums hanging from the roof, ready to swing, and the splatters of blood dried into the stone over millennia from below. He went to work finding the triggers for the trap and disabling them--the flame atronach and Yagraz had things handled with only a few weak Draugr for opponents.  
  
It turned out to only be a bit of string attached to a door, which was ended with a quick touch of the spear’s blade. Mohamara used the spear’s long length to jab at the Draugr below, distracting them and providing openings for Yagraz to decapitate them with ease.  
  
“There’s _a lot_ of Draugr behind this door,” Mohamara informed Yagraz when they ventured deeper and found a double-door sealed with a visibly glowing barrier. “Not right behind it, but this way.”  
  
“Alright, so you want to dispel this barrier and we’ll go smash ‘em?” Yagraz struck the blunt side of her ax to her shield, psyching herself up.  
  
“See, that’s a problem.” The cat stepped away from the door and moved to a route leading downward again. “There’s more Draugr down there… and the sympathetic bonds are telling me that it’s also where we’ll find King Olaf’s verse.”  
  
“Who gives a shit about the verse?” Yagraz shrugged. “It’ll be there when we’re done.”  
  
“Not necessarily. What if the guy all these Draugr are feeding their energy into is a Tongue?” Mohamara levied a dark look at Yagraz. “With you and him throwing your thu’ums around, you could very well cause an earthquake.”  
  
“The correct pluralization is thu’umme.” But she relented and followed after the cat.  
  
“The correct pluralization can be the mathematical concept of cheese for all the good it’ll do, let’s go.”  
  
\--  
  
They found the ghost again at the bottom of the tomb, hidden behind a wall. Mohamara only tried to stab him once before retrieving the book the ghost’s corpse clutched. The ghost gave the cat a disbelieving look as he read the verse. Once the cat looked back up from the tome, confused, the ghost began to fade.  
  
“What’s up?” Yagraz asked and tried to look over the cat’s shoulder. “Not usable?”  
  
“Nearly,” Mohamara answered, and shoved the book into his backpack. “Significant water damage to the verse. But Viarmo wanted it, so he'll get it. From what I can gather though, that ghost guy was the bard who wrote this. Pretty hefty criticism for Olaf, who had him buried alive down here. Look, you can see the scratch marks from fingernails on the wall.”  
  
Yagraz made a disgusted face and started off back up the way they’d come. “Olaf was a right nasty piece of work, ugh.”  
  
“Well, considering we’re going to be fighting him most likely behind that door, I imagine we’ll get to see for ourselves.”  
  
In the end, King Olaf’s Draugr’d out corpse wasn’t even a good fight. The bard’s ghost helped them throughout Olaf sending waves of his lieutenants after them in groups too small to be threatening. Had he sent them all at once, and come down himself to fight, it would have been a story worth telling in mead halls, or taverns across Skyrim. Perhaps worth a bardic song of its own.  
  
But it wasn’t. And that, to Mohamara was King Olaf’s worst crime. Even though he was so vicious in life, and evil in his necromantic practices, he was boring.  
  
Boring. Boring. _Boring!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> She is the most interesting Orc in the world.
> 
> Stay thirsty, my friends.


	10. To see the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The lost history of King Olaf One-Eye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how in Far Cry 4 black eagles were absolutely terrifying and could attack any time or place?

  
  
\---  
**Chapter 10: To see the Past**  
  
Mohamara held in his hands a great treasure. A grand soul gem, filled with the spirit of Olaf’s Draugr.  
  
“You didn’t tell me that your ax snares souls,” the Khajiit said in awe as he looked at the forked crystal from many angles. The Draugr’s soul was ensnared inside, tormented by the way light from the campfire passed through his prison.  
  
“You didn’t ask. But it’s good to have for going into a Draugr crypt. Because they’re not people anymore you can harvest their souls guilt-free.” Yagraz adjusted the salmon Mohamara had caught them out of the Hjaal River for their supper as they cooked near the fire.  
  
No one could out-fish a cat, after all.  
  
“I’ve been selling the filled gems to Farengar up in Dragonsreach for a nice little profit since I don’t have enchanting skills to make any of my gear magic. Got the ax done as a favor from some guy up in Winterhold, he had a deadbeat who wouldn’t pay what they owed him.”  
  
Mohamara’s eyes were full of glittering facets from watching how the light played with the grand soul gem. If he stared too long, he’d fall into the Khajiit trap of shiny things, so he set the gem down and pushed it toward Yagraz.  
  
“Well, I can whip you up something pretty sweet. Just tell me what you want, and I’ll make it happen.” Mohamara’s share of the loot from Dead Man’s respite had been the soul gems he’d found, a handful of garnets, and a Nordic dagger they’d found in a chest. Even though he could call up a bound dagger whenever, he didn’t have the conjuration skill to enchant it yet, so a physical blade would be necessary.  
  
“Here.” She handed him a gold ring set with an almost perfectly rounded ruby and pushed the grand soul gem back over to him. “Make me a ring of regeneration, short-stuff.”  
  
“No problem.” Mohamara took the items and went into a meditative state. Anyone from the Fourth Era likely would need a designated workstation laden with enchantments of its own to enchant an item.  
  
But with an Enchanting Plus Certification, Mohamara was trained to do on-site enchanting, anticipating a need to fix broken components on the job. Still, it wasn’t a quick process.   
  
Once properly centered, he pinched the top of the forked grand soul gem and pulled away. The soul gem began to unravel into hair-thin filaments, too light to be brought down by gravity. When there was a small cloud of the soul gem in the air, Mohamara picked up the ring and began to guide the filaments into it forming Nordic knots to complete the magical array.  
  
Mohamara’s light tugging as he fused the gem into the ring pulled more filaments free of the gem, in turn, ensuring that he never had to touch the gem’s complete form again during the entire process.  
  
Strictly speaking, what he was doing was illegal. He was only cleared to work on souls up to the greater size category. But there were no cops around, and Yagraz’s presence gave Mohamara the confidence not worry about some mystical detection method once he was back home.  
  
The only reason he wasn’t cleared for grand soul gems was that it would make him able to work with black soul gems. The only people legally allowed to use grand souls were military enchanters, and certain authorized corporations, such as Telvanni.  
  
When it was done, the ring’s whole surface was coated in densely interlinked Nordic knots that shone with the light of Olaf’s Draugr’s soul. After a moment to let it cool down, the filaments sank into the ring and the gem, where they would settle at the middle and radiate the regeneration effect outward.  
  
Proud of his work, the cat handed the ring back with a wide smile. Yagraz examined the ring with an appraising eye and tested it by quickly putting it on. The few scratches she’d gotten from the trek through Dead Man’s Respite sealed right before Mohamara’s eyes, sealing closed with faint trails of smoke with nary a scar left in their wake.  
  
To his surprise, she took the ring off, however. “That’s a really strong regeneration effect you got on this thing. Great work, short-stuff.” Then she offered the ring back to him.  
  
Mohamara’s ears and whiskers drooped, as he tried to parse what was going on. Didn’t she like it? Had he missed something in her request? Was it healing incorrectly?  
  
“Oh don’t make that sad face, fuzzbutt. It’s exactly what I wanted. I just want _you_ to have it, for now at least. Think I didn’t notice how you’re missing most of your tail? Aw come on, short-stuff, don’t cry--ack!” Yagraz was unprepared for how much kinetic energy an emotional tojay Khajiit could convey when one wanted to tackle-hug someone. “Jeeze, how bad have you had it that something as basic as this gets you weepy?”  
  
As if to answer her, an eagle swooped down, snagged Mohamara by the back of his robes, and attempted to fly away with the emotional cat. Attempted being the key word, as Mohamara snagged a rocky outcropping from the top of the hill Dead Man’s Respite was carved into and kept it in place long enough for Yagraz to throwing-ax the bird out of the air.  
  
“Okay, ask a stupid question get a stupid answer, I guess.” When she ascended the hill to retrieve her ax, she also grabbed the eagle to carry back down to the campsite with her. “C’mon, I know how to make this taste like chicken. Not really _good_ chicken, but still.”  
  
\--  
  
When Mohamara woke up, after spending the night with the ring of regeneration on, it was to having his fully regenerated tail brush up against his nose. After so long of not seeing it, natural cat instincts took over as the limb seemed to move on its own.  
  
He tried to catch it and continued to miss. This would go on until Yagraz woke up and found the tojay actively chasing his tail around. Whereupon she would do as friends were required to do: Record the scene for future blackmailing purposes.  
  
The trip back to Solitude was uneventful, but things became interesting when the dynamic duo arrived at the bard’s college and presented King Olaf’s verse to Viarmo. It was a thing of terrible beauty to watch him go from neutral, to hopeful and energized and then bitterly defeated as he was handed the verse.  
  
“With so much of the verse unreadable, I don’t think this will be enough to convince Elisif to overturn the ban,” Viarmo informed the two after examining the book’s pages. One of them actually fell away as he was reading it. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time, one moment I will go and fetch your pay, Companion.”  
  
“Hold up,” Mohamara caught Viarmo’s sleeve as the High Elf turned away. Something in how it looked like the headmaster had fully given into despair--like he would never be happy again--motivated the cat into action. “I know of some magical ways that might be able to tell us what those verses were about. And--even if we don’t get it right we can still bring the story of the bard who wrote the verse to Elisif.”  
  
“The guy wrote that stuff to criticize Olaf, and Olaf had him buried alive for it.” Yagraz seamlessly backed Mohamara up on his stance. “Elisif is many things, but if she wants to keep her title of ‘Fair’ perhaps she could stand to be better about criticism?”  
  
The High Elf looked at the two of them, considering, and as he did a bit of his old energy came back. “A good point. So! This magical method you mentioned, would it involve restoring the book?”  
  
“Sorta.” Mohamara released Viarmo and went hunting for a round table, and three chairs. “We’re going to need Giraud for this.”  
  
Yagraz gave Mohamara a questioning look after Viarmo went off to fetch the dean of history. “You doing some of that freaky magic-trip stuff?”  
  
“Yep.” Mohamara went around the room and grabbed copies of the Poetic Edda from Giraud’s shelves, and arranged them on the table he’d picked. The chairs were arranged to be positioned at the one-third marks around the table. When Giraud and Viarmo were back, Mohamara snatched the verse out of the headmaster’s hands and placed it dead center on the table with his slate on top of it. “Alright, take a seat you two. The more I explain about this the harder it’ll be to do since your minds will resist the spell--so ask your questions carefully.”  
  
“Alright,” Giraud started, his tone intrigued. “Why am I needed?”  
  
“Because you know the history of Skyrim better than anyone else here--you know the information _around_ what we’re looking for, and I can follow that to find what we’re missing.”  
  
“That explained less than nothing--I’ve somehow forgotten things I didn’t even know I knew.”  
  
“Good, that means it’ll work better.” Mohamara looked away from the dean of history who was still visibly confused by the Khajiit’s words. With the dean’s question done, it was Viarmo’s turn.  
  
“Will it help convince Elisif?” The High Elf had a faint but noticeable note of _hope_ in his voice that Mohamara feared. It spoke of the possibility of disappointment.  
  
“To be honest, you could have just changed the festival’s name to the burning of Ulfric Stormcloak and she’d have been fine with it,” Yagraz cut in as she took a seat against the far wall. “She’s not exactly stubborn.”  
  
“Yes, I know. But the political angle on the burning of King Olaf was worn off hundreds of years ago. Now it’s just a way for the people of Solitude to relax, and be happy.” A bit of his energy drained from him as he spoke. “There are so few reasons to be happy in Solitude anymore.”  
  
Mohamara took the empty seat and closed his eyes. A Mysticism master who could see the sympathetic bonds would have been able to set up this little ritual in seconds, but for him, it took a bit of time to first find them and then guide them to where he needed them. “Alright, it should work now.” Mohamara activated his slate and set it back down on the verse, enabling the projector set to cast a white light on the ceiling. “Now headmaster--you remember the parts of the verse that’s legible? Good, you’ll read it off. Giraud, I need you to think about the history of what he’s saying--leap to conclusions if you can. What I’m able to find will show up in the projection.”  
  
Ataf, Illdi, and Aia had heard the talking going on and came to watch the ritual, seated alongside Yagraz as the cat’s eyes went white from the magic.  
  
_”O, Olaf, our subjugator, the one-eyed betrayer;  
Death-dealing demon, and dragon-killing King.  
Your legend is lies, lurid, and false;  
Your cunning capture of Numinex, a con for the ages.”_  
  
Mohamara saw a pictograph of Olaf, stylized and regal, then the mountain palace of Dragonsreach with its armored Jar. The two grew closer together until they were one in the same. The hybrid figure was shown, younger--a boy, Shouting at rocks alongside others with a dragon perched overhead.  
  
“King Olaf was Olaf One-Eye,” Giraud spoke, amazed as he looked up at the projection. “Numinex was supposed to be a vicious, mass-murdering beast. But look!”  
  
“He’s teaching them how to Shout,” Viarmo finished. “He was their tutor. But… why capture him then?”  
  
The sympathetic bonds raced between images--Olaf stood in front of a moving background, growing older until his hair was salt and pepper, and his face heavy with lines. This aged Olaf grew angrier and angrier until his face was a twisted mask of vitriol. Olaf faded, and the scene changed to a blurred image--there were so many sympathetic bonds here that Mohamara struggled to piece them together into one cohesive whole.  
  
When it became clearer, it was a grinning and happy Olaf who stood on the balcony of Dragonsreach, a table heavy with food near the doors to the palace, while Numinex advanced inward. Bonds from Numinex himself began to override the image--the dragon’s very nature was important.  
  
NU - MI - NEX, the text appeared.  
  
“I don’t speak the dragon language, what does this--”  
  
“Now, faith, trial,” Yagraz cut in. “Mi is the root word for ‘loyal’ and ‘loyalty’, so it would translate into test of faith or test of loyalty.”  
  
“Numinex put to his student a test of faith that he’d failed, perhaps?” Viarmo was guessing wildly, stroking his beard while the students looked on with wonder. “This just raises _more_ questions.”  
  
The feast and the dragon were clear again, and as Numinex stepped forward a great yolk slammed down upon his neck. Olaf’s one eye glittered with malevolent glee.  
  
“This was in the time when the practice of sacred hospitality was still common,” Giraud observed. “So Olaf would have violated custom in a hideous way by doing this.”  
  
“Hmm, I think I can figure out what those damaged lines refer to with this information.” Viarmo watched as the scene faded from the projection, then looked at the audience, Giraud, and the inert Mohamara. “Should I start on the next part, or--”  
  
**”Yes.”** Mohamara’s body spoke, growling in an otherworldly voice both Mohamara’s and not at the same time.  
  
“By the _Eight_ is that disturbing,” Ataf commented while chewing on some snowberries that Illdi had passed him.  
  
_”Olaf grabbed power, by promise and threat;  
From Falkreath to Winterhold, they fell to their knees;  
But Solitude stood strong, Skyrim’s truest protectors.  
Olaf’s vengeance was instant, inspired and wicked.”_  
  
“But Solitude attacked Winterhold, not the reverse.” Giraud’s face grew agitated while he considered the verse itself. This, in turn, gave bonds for Mohamara to run down and bring to the projection.  
  
Olaf, older still, gathered before a table of heavily armored Nord men and women. Before him a mockup of Solitude’s archway, with a fleet of ancient Nord ships in the waters around it. The projection of Olaf knocked the pillar under which the Blue Palace rested away, hissing a faint ‘fus ro dah’ as he did. The mockup of Solitude fell onto the table, unable to support its own weight without the completed arch.  
  
“Oh. That’s… yeah, that’s pretty inspired and wicked.”  
  
“By the gods,” Aia breathed more than spoke. “He would have destroyed the whole city.”  
  
Illdi’s grip on the snowberry bowl went slack and it hit the floor, spilling red fruit everywhere. She furiously blinked at the scene of the destroyed Solitude mockup, unable to comprehend how it would look if it had happened that way.  
  
The scene of the projection shifted to a man standing in the room with Olaf and the armored Nords. The same bard that would go on to write the verse and be entombed alive looked upon this scene, turned and ran away, A series of stilled images showed the bard running, climbing, and riding horseback from Winterhold city to the gates of the Blue Palace. The bard pleaded with the Jarl of Solitude, begging on his knees for something that the sympathetic bonds could not find.  
  
The Jarl of Solitude stood and suddenly was in his armor, standing before his army, attacking Winterhold’s once mighty walls.  
  
“Olaf was going to destroy Solitude entirely--and that man told this to the Jarl of Solitude, who then attacked Winterhold preemptively,” Viarmo spoke, with venom in his voice and a hateful look in his eyes as he watched the Olaf escape Winterhold. “I don’t think I’ll have _any_ trouble convincing Elisif of the festival’s importance now.” The projected image began to fade, and the High Elf stood from his seat. “That’s the last damaged part of the verse--now I have the task of reconstructing what was written there in accurate verse.”  
  
“Please, there’s so much more we could learn from this,” Giraud started as the sympathetic bonds between them began to fray and break apart. “So much history we could recover. Just a little while longer?”  
  
“How do we even know that what you were seeing was what really happened?” Illdi spoke up, voice shaky as she picked up spilled snowberries.  
  
“Well… I guess it was the feel of it.” Viarmo crossed his arms and watched the Khajiit fall face-first onto the table, passed out. “When the spell was going on, even though we were watching it happen on Mohamara’s slate it felt like… like we were there.”  
  
“I could feel what Numinex felt when that yolk slammed down on him. And the desperation that man felt when he ran away to tell Solitude of Olaf’s plans.” Giraud backed up the headmaster and looked forlornly at the passed out Khajiit. “Oh well, perhaps an occasion will come again where we can do this.”  
  
“The actual fuck you will,” Yagraz cut in as she scooped up Mohamara and his slate. “Short-stuff didn’t tell you because I guess he wanted to help you real bad, but this ritual he did? It’s like reading an Elder Scroll--draining and damaging if done too often.” Though unconscious, the Khajiit moved his arms to better hang onto his friend’s neck while she carried him around. “Just doing the ritual at all is probably going to leave him blind for… I dunno. A week? Two tops.”  
  
Ataf was taking a drink of water when Yagraz dropped that information and spat his mouthful of water out onto Aia from the shock of it. Aia then slapped him as hard as she possibly could.  
  
Viarmo pinched the bridge of his nose. “But it won’t be permanent? Good, I’ll see that he’s suitably compensated for what he’s done. And if he’s able to walk tomorrow, I’ll have him with me to present the lost verse at court.” He looked up and glanced at Yagraz before slapping his forehead. “I forgot your payment, terribly sorry, Companion. I’ll go grab that and you can be on your way.”  
  
“Oh every single kind of no, string bean,” Yagraz adjusted her grip on the unconscious Khajiit, using his spear to help hold him up, and thrust her chin out in defiance. “Me and short-stuff go way back, I’m staying here as long as he does. You tell me where his room is, I’ll set him down there and go get a room at the Skeever.”  
  
Aia stood, wiping Ataf’s spit-take off her face in visceral disgust and walked away. “I’ll show you the way, I have to change anyway.”  
  
\--  
  
Yagraz had taken one look at the corner of the cold stone room where the students slept, turned on her heels and walked out. No friend of hers was going to be sleeping on the _ground_ while she had the gold to pay for a bed.  
  
After getting her pay off the headmaster, she marched down to the Winking Skeever and booked two rooms. The one with the larger bed she had to take by necessity, so she just set the Khajiit to sleep in his room and rested in hers.  
  
Five years. She’d overshot Mohamara’s kidnapping by _five years_. Apparently, she’d aged well, the tojay hadn’t even noticed how much older she was. But still, she almost regretted all that wasted time looking for him when he wasn’t even around yet.  
  
But the thoughts of her shield-siblings in Jorvaskr, of the friends she had made in Whiterun and beyond, and the little girl she’d taken in made her remember regret was worthless. Her life had been good, and she was stronger for having been in the Fourth Era so long.  
  
Mohamara… was not. He was wiser, more experienced, but had not grown any stronger from his time in ancient Skyrim. Perhaps he could entreat his Daedra for help as she had done, or perhaps she could cajole him into joining up with the Companions. If she could teach him to put his quick movements and elegant jumps into killing potential, he might have a good chance of surviving when she couldn’t rescue him.  
  
The most obvious path to ensuring his survival was to impart… the gift. But that would seal his fate after death--Hircine’s hunting grounds for eternity. And his Daedra might abandon him immediately if he became a werewolf.  
  
...Hadn’t she already abandoned him, though? Meridia hadn’t saved Mohamara from Sheogorath, no matter how enraged she’d been that the Mad God had stolen him. She hadn’t sent _any_ help to him.  
  
Yagraz stopped the train of thought short--Mohamara would never forgive her for turning his Lady against him, even unintentionally. If he did that to Yagraz, and Malacath abandoned her, she would have the same reaction. A third option would have to be found or made.  
  
Her brooding was cut short by the bed she sat on creaking under her weight, then breaking apart. Dread and fear were replaced by rage as she stormed down to the tavernkeeper to shout about how he had guaranteed a bed that wouldn’t break under her.  
  
It hadn’t even happened in the fun way.  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yagraz, a waif, is not.


	11. The Man who Cried Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another quest appears!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone knows the siren song of a comfy bed, right? That's a universal thing?

  
\---  
**Chapter 11: The Man that Cried Wolf**  
  
He’d expected to be blind when he woke up, so that wasn’t a surprise for Mohamara. What was unexpected was waking up in a bed--an unfamiliar bed from the smell and feel of the blankets. Mohamara suspected that tojay had been visual or auditory hunters since he didn’t have the enhanced sense of smell that the cathay from Ri’saad’s caravan possessed. But even with average noses, the smell of _lavender_ oil in the pillows and blankets was not something found in the bard’s college.  
  
Only Ateia perfumed her bedding--with the smell of sunflowers. She’d insisted they be washed with the scent as well, which made it a pain to do her laundry before Mohamara was a student.  
  
Which reminded him that, blind or not, he probably had to get up for Inge’s class if he hadn’t missed it already.  
  
However, with a proper mattress to sleep on, a feather pillow, and thick blankets that didn’t faintly smell of his own blood, he found it difficult to move.  
  
“Curse you, comfiness,” Mohamara grumbled to himself as he dug his face deeper into the blankets. “Curse you to the Indigo Room.” Soon enough, he was asleep again.  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara dreamed of clouds.  
  
They each had names. Cirrus, Nimbus, Cumulus, and others. They were so different that he struggled to remember that they were the same thing. When he ate some, they tasted like butter. Perfectly fine, but after a while, the taste of butter alone grew unpleasant. So instead of eating them, he watched them.  
  
The wind sculpted them into shapes that could last for what seemed forever or only a moment. Animals, places, Daedric letters, all could be made out of clouds it seemed.  
  
When Mohamara tried to create a shape in the clouds, it was always gone by the time he got far enough away to see it. After repeated failed attempts, he just stopped and let the wind be the sculptor.  
  
\--  
  
He was still blind when he woke up a second time, but he could hear people speaking from somewhere not too far away. Wherever he was, it was populated, and by _rudely_ loud people.

  
As he got up from the bed came the embarrassing process of figuring out where things were orientated in the room. Usually, he found a piece of furniture by walking into it, except in the case where the door hit him.  
  
It was preceded by two knocks, and Yagraz speaking from outside. “Hey short-stuff, I’m respecting your boundaries by asking if you’re decent before entering…” And then the door opened and hit Mohamara square in the nose. “But asserting my position as your best friend by coming in anyway.”  
  
Mohamara was busy rubbing his nose to make sure there was no blood before he remembered he wouldn’t be able to _see_ if there was. “Where in the Ashpit are we?”  
  
“Winking Skeever, I got us some rooms. Can’t believe those bards had you sleeping on the floor.” The door closed, and Yagraz handed a fresh sweetroll to the cat while he listened to her move through the room. “After the meeting with the Jarl, I’m thinking we stay until the festival if it’s going to happen soon then start off to Whiterun. What do you think?”  
  
The tojay had been nibbling at the sweetroll--Jorn always got to them first so he hadn’t had one in a while, and wanted to savor it. “I can’t leave yet--I’ve got to finish studying at the college and become a bard. Daedra’s orders. And after that, I have to go off to Eastmarch then come back here.”  
  
Yagraz seemed to have found a chair and sat in it, eating something that sounded like ribs. Odd, she hadn’t been a morning ribs person back home--she’d always been a morning grilled chicken person for breakfast meats. “Well, have them make you a bard for getting their festival back up and running. I gotta get back to Whiterun, and don’t want to leave you alone in Solitude.”  
  
A week’s worth of training to be a bard didn’t seem enough time to actually _be_ a bard, but Mohamara had to agree that being alone again after finding Yagraz would be… hard to recover from. “Maybe… I’ve gotten the quintessential parts of being a bard--I can sing and record history? Everything else is just sort of frills that help with getting a patron--I guess?”  
  
“See? Using them college smarts to your advantage. Now finish eating--not to be mean but your clothes aren’t fit for meeting a Jarl. I’m a Companion, so I get to just wear armor, but shorties like you gotta be fashionable.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears went flat against his skull while he started to take bigger bites of the sweetroll. “And how do you intend to fix this issue when everything of mine you have is in Whiterun?”  
  
“Solitude’s got some of the best tailors in Skyrim--and I know someone that can help us out short-notice.” A profound crunching filled the air, and Mohamara had to guess Yagraz was eating the rib part of her morning ribs. “I know a tailor that both owes me money and would kill for business with the Blue Palace.”  
  
With the sweetroll devoured, Mohamara got up to his feet to point in Yagraz’s general direction. “I will permit them to stab me with their needles only seven times. For every time they stab me after that, I will kill you.”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara had thought that running through Markarth in his skivvies had been humiliating. He’d thought being robbed of his clothes by a drunk Orc who assumed he was a child had been humiliating. But neither of those stacked up to being made to pose in the same state of undress for two High Elven tailors who had the audacity to _comment_ on him while they took measurements.  
  
He knew they were High Elves because no other race of Mer could put such _visceral disdain_ into their words. Not even Telvanni Dunmer could match the average High Elf.  
  
“Ugh, we’re going to need a miracle to make something worthy of the Blue Palace for… this.”  
  
“Well if you thought we could use our children’s stock think again--he’s too skinny and lanky for anything we’ve got.”  
  
“You should have paid that Orc woman what you owed instead of giving her a favor.”  
  
“Well, it’s gotten us a chance to get Radiant Raiment in Elisif’s mind so we’ll have to make it _work_. Stop moving your arms, fool boy.”  
  
The two High Elf women spoke to each other like Mohamara wasn’t even there, except when he tried to move out of whatever pose they had him in. They didn’t bother removing the strip of cloth Yagraz had tied around Mohamara’s eyes to let people know he was blind, so at least they had _some_ respect.  
  
“At least he can’t see so he can’t tell us what he thinks of every fabric sample you bring in. What if he’d seen you bring in this, huh? We’re saving that for the _Jarl_ not some guest of hers or something.”  
  
“Well maybe if we want her to buy our products we should put our best foot forward--give the outfit something to hook the Jarl’s interest, hmm?”  
  
“...What are we going to do for shoes? Nothing we have fits.”  
  
“Oh damn it _all_.”  
  
Mohamara wondered at what point the profession of ‘shoe-making’ and ‘clothes-making’ became combined in the tailor profession. As he listened to one of the women frantically opening drawers and flipping through books, it almost amused him enough to smile. But he couldn’t _see_ it, so it didn’t pass the smile threshold.  
  
“Sandals! I can whip up some sandals no problem, won’t take me but an hour to get them ready and fit for court.” A door opened, and the woman’s voice became faint. “When is he seeing the Jarl?”  
  
“Later today,” Yagraz answered.  
  
The door slammed shut again. “Alright, plenty of time. Plenty of time.”  
  
“Could you perhaps get the trousers done first? It’s drafty in here.” Mohamara made sure to speak evenly, politely, and without judgment as neither woman had stabbed him with any needles yet.  
  
“Oh, we can’t do trousers on such short notice. We’re probably going to have to make a skirt, or robes with some sort of vest or doublet.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears went flat on his skull and his tail began to swish from annoyance. “I would prefer robes over a skirt, but you’re the ones making decisions.”  
  
They continued to chat with each other as if Mohamara had said nothing. “Should we bother with the smallclothes? What he has now serves well enough. Probably even looked nice when it was _new_.”  
  
“We have the measurements, and it’ll be one more thing we can credit against the debt _you_ owe that Orc woman, so why not?”  
  
“Oh, you’re impossible when you’re like this.”  
  
“You have time for _smallclothes_ but not _trousers?_ What is it with this place and refusing to let me _just wear trousers?!_ ” Mohamara broke from the pose the tailors had him in entirely to pull at his ears in frustration while Yagraz cackled in the next room.  
  
\--  
  
“I feel like I look stupid. Do I look stupid?”  
  
“You look _so incredibly stupid_. It's like… wow.”  
  
Mohamara’s tail whipped around and smacked into Yagraz’s legs as they walked. “Thank you for sparing my feelings.”  
  
“Hey,” Yagraz rested her hand between Mohamara’s ears to guide him away from a signpost he couldn’t see coming. “I remember getting the same from you when I asked about my prom dress.”  
  
“Because you’re an _autumn_ and you were wearing _spring_ colors!”  
  
Viarmo, walking ahead of them cleared his throat to cut into the friend’s conversation. “Alright, we’re passing through the gates now. Thank you for agreeing to leave the spear behind, I don’t want to risk being late by having the court wizard examine it.”  
  
Mohamara gave the High Elf’s back a thumbs up, missing the window when Viarmo was looking by a solid ten seconds.  
  
“You know short-stuff, it’s probably for the best that you can’t see right now,” Yagraz informed him while using her hand on his head to guide him around the excessive number of decorative pillars the Blue Palace courtyard featured. “If you could see, you’d see something that… well, it would cause problems in there.”  
  
“Now you have me interested.” Mohamara looked up at her solely to convey an arched eyebrow expression. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Now, if I told you it would be just as bad. I need you to trust me that it’s something we can deal with _later_ since I told you about it when I didn’t need to, okay?”  
  
“Alright, alright.” Mohamara tail twitched in agitation, but he otherwise relaxed and let Yagraz guide him.  
  
The trio was asked to stay in the Palace foyer with another man who had come seeking an audience with the Jarl, and wait for Elisif to finish court business. Shouting and threats from the throne room just beyond the foyer made Mohamara think that things weren’t going well for the Hold.  
  
“Political problems?”  
  
Viarmo sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “The war’s not going well--the Empire is asking Solitude to pay for pretty much all Imperial forces in the region, which in turn leads to higher and more frequent taxes. But that’s not why we’re here, and you need to remember that a bard is supposed to stay out of politics.”  
  
“Like the guy who betrayed Olaf to save this city?” Yagraz pointed at the repaired copy of King Olaf’s verse that Viarmo carried with him. “Really apolitical move, that.”  
  
“I won’t deny that sometimes it’s impossible to stay out of politics--but a bard’s role is to _record_ history, not to shape it.” Viarmo turned his back on the two, signifying the end of the conversation though Mohamara couldn’t see this.  
  
After a while, those seeking an audience were allowed into the throne room. It was on the floor above the foyer, accessed by two winding staircases. Rather than deal with the stairs, Yagraz scooped up Mohamara and carried him the cat’s tail flicked all over the place.  
  
“The first audience for the day is for Varnius Junius,” announced a Solitude City Guardsman who stood alongside the heavily armored housecarl to Elisif.  
  
Varnius, an Imperial man, stepped forward to appeal to the Jarl--about strange noises and lights seen from Wolfskull Cave. The very name made Mohamara’s ears flick back. Wolfskull was an old ruin of necromantic energies not far at all from Kilkreath temple. The cave had possessed many names through the years--but it was the cave’s existence that sparked the placement of Meridia’s temple.  
  
A garrison to stand guard and destroy all necromancers that tried to tap into the wellspring of evil energies within.  
  
Curious, Mohamara tapped into the sympathetic bonds in the room to see what could be seen. The bonds between people were unbalanced, to say the least. There was a woman in the throne room to whom an excessive number of bonds forged. She wasn’t the Jarl, for when Elisif spoke the voice came to the right of her. A thane, perhaps? Or another court officer?  
  
Something connected her to everyone in the room, even Varnius. When he spoke, the sympathetic bonds forked between Elisif and the woman--like it somehow affected both of them. And when Elisif promised an Imperial Legion to scour the cave, the unknown woman sent an arc of energy directly down the bonds that connected her and the voice belonging to what Mohamara assumed was the Jarl’s steward.  
  
The cave issue was transferred to the steward, to find a spirited adventurer to solve the problem. Without missing a beat, Mohamara jabbed Yagraz in the side and looked up to her with a ‘something’s fucky’ expression.  
  
Next, it was Viarmo’s turn to appeal to Elisif. The Jarl seemed tickled pink with the prospect of a reading of King Olaf’s lost verse, and actually stood to hear it from the headmaster.  
  
The new verses, discernable by a subtle change in Viarmo’s tone from booming to something soft proved interesting.  
  
_”No monster in Numinex did you defeat;  
No great honor was your conquest;  
A sage and friend called to a feast;  
Did you ensnare while he was your guest.”_  
  
Elisif gasped like she was seeing scandalous news told to her by the latest sources. Some of the court had similar reactions, though none to the same degree.  
  
_”Olaf gave orders--destroy Solitude’s archway;  
Peerless death and destruction to follow;  
But by one brave soul, his plan gave away;  
And brought a rout to Winterhold, to Olaf--sorrow.”_  
  
The Jarl had to sit down while Viarmo finished the reading, then bowed elegantly to the scattered applause of the court.  
  
“I… I didn’t know,” Elisif started, haltingly. “I didn’t know how… vile King Olaf was. He truly earned his burning, didn’t he?” With a definitive clap of her hands, Elisif decreed that the festival was to be reinstated, and held posthaste.  
  
Before the audience was officially done, Mohamara snapped his fingers in Viarmo’s direction since he couldn’t tell exactly where he was. “I think it’s important for the Jarl to know _why_ the verse was lost if you wouldn’t mind?”  
  
Viarmo sighed. “I know you two risked a lot to get it back, but that’s such a minor detail that--”  
  
“Oh? Is there a story to the verse’s retrieval perhaps?”  
  
Though Mohamara couldn’t see it, Viarmo’s face pinched dramatically when Elisif paused in her leaving the throne to listen in.  
  
“I have enough time for a short bit of history, if so.”  
  
“Well, young bard since you feel so _strongly_ about this, I invite you to tell the story to the Jarl.”  
  
Mohamara slipped out of Yagraz’s grip without problems and stepped toward where he heard the young Jarl’s voice. With a bit of searching via minor sounds, he bowed before her and got ready to speak.  
  
“You’re a bard? At such a young age?”  
  
“Oh… no, my Jarl. This man isn’t a child, he’s just a short variety of Khajiit. I think he’s only a few years younger than you, actually.”  
  
Mohamara nodded in the direction of Viarmo and started to speak for himself again. “This isn’t the story of how the verse was retrieved. That story… well, it isn’t worth telling honestly. No, what I ask you to listen to is how it came to be _lost_.” A bit of pause to give the Jarl the opportunity to decline, after which the tojay resumed. “The bard who wrote this verse, Svaknir, was a servant of King Olaf. He broke away from One-Eye to warn Solitude about the planned attack. It is unknown if Olaf ever discovered his treachery, honorable as it might have been. But when the bard wrote down an honest telling of Olaf’s rule, giving no praise but pointing out what he’d done wrong, Olaf had him buried alive with the only copy of the verse.”  
  
“That’s… terrible. To be buried alive--what an awful death.” Elisif’s sympathetic bonds strongly connected her to the image of Svaknir trapped in the little room at the bottom of a hole. For whatever faults she had, the Jarl could clearly imagine what it would have been like.  
  
“Yes, my Jarl.” Mohamara tapped his fingers together rhythmically. “And… in the process of discovering this, it pointed out to us--to me, a vacancy in your court. You’re young, you’re in mourning, and you desperately want your people to be happy.”  
  
“Is this a request for patronage?” There was no anger or even annoyance in her voice. A perfect tone of political neutrality.  
  
“For me? No. For the bard’s college? Yes. I propose that every so often you have one of the bards from the college go among your citizens, hear their grievances, and bring them to you.”  
  
“A sentiment I can readily support--but my steward, Falk Firebeard, fills that function already.”  
  
“I’m not going to tell you your business, my Jarl, but perhaps consider that when Falk speaks of things like ‘restraint’ when your citizens make the trip to speak to you about fear for their lives--what issues he never brings to your attention at all?”  
  
There was a silence so stiff and awkward it could have been Mohamara’s junior prom.  
  
“I’ll… consider it. When I make my decision, I’ll relay a message directly to your headmaster. You may go.” Elisif once more turned to leave, before looking down at the blinded Khajiit. “Though I must say, you have excellent fashion sense for a blind man.”  
  
Mohamara bowed and walked backward toward Viarmo and where Yagraz had been. The tojay was surprised to find his Orc friend vanished.  
  
“Thank you for trying to get more business for the college,” Viarmo said and hesitantly patted Mohamara on the head between his ears. “But I think you might have overplayed your hand there. Waiting for the festival would have been a safer bet.”  
  
  
“There’s no guarantee she’ll even _go_ , and after how they just shelved the talk of something weird going on in _Wolfskull_ , I can’t imagine she leaves the Blue Palace all that often.” Mohamara shrugged and stood, waiting for Yagraz to return or for something else to happen since he couldn’t _see_ to be proactive.  
  
“Excuse me, can we talk?” A cultured woman’s voice spoke from behind the two men, prompting them to turn. “My name is Sybille Stentor, court wizard to Jarl Elisif. Young man, you have a strong magical aura around you--are you a wizard, perchance?”  
  
Mohamara nodded. “I specialize in Mysticism and enchanting, you?”  
  
“Mysticism? I can’t say I’ve run into many wizards that even _study_ that topic anymore. I’m a master of Destruction and Restoration myself, though I know enough Mysticism to do some divining. Would you perchance be willing to come with me and we can exchange information?” Though Mohamara could not see it, Sybille was a Breton woman, with shining gold eyes beneath a hooded deep blue robe. Viarmo visibly stiffened as he caught the Breton’s piercing gaze, but did not speak.  
  
“I… guess? I’m not much on Destruction myself, but I’d be happy to trade some Mysticism for Restoration if that’s okay with you?”  
  
“A more than adequate trade. My lab is in my quarters, please follow the sound of my voice.” The Breton woman turned and started to walk away, with Mohamara slowly following behind.  
  
“Could you tell Yagraz where I am if she comes back from...wherever she went?”  
  
“Yeah, I can do that. See you at the festival later tonight, I guess,” Viarmo hesitantly spoke to the leaving mages.  
  
\--  
  
Yagraz returned to the main room of the palace to find Viarmo on his own standing in the foyer. “Hey string-bean, where’s short-stuff?”  
  
Viarmo looked up at her with a minor frown. “Ah, there you are. I’ve been waiting for a while now.”  
  
Yagraz nodded and rolled her shoulders. Several unpleasant sounding cracks echoed through the small room, each prompting Viarmo to jump slightly. “I was talking to the steward about the Wolfskull job. Made it an official Companions task. Took a bit to get him to agree on a price, but he and I made an arrangement. Now--where’s short-stuff.”  
  
“He’s with the court wizard, exchanging knowledge of magic.”  
  
Yagraz’s blood went cold in her veins and she instinctively went to reach for her ax and turn toward the stairs leading up. Solitude guards were a joke--trained to look important and fight like they were wielding steel ingots with hilts rather than swords. She could carve her way through them, snatch Mohamara, and fight her way out of town if she got lucky and the Legion didn’t involve themselves.  
  
But to her surprise, she saw Mohamara with _her_ walking down the stairs. The Khajiit held three thick books to his chest with one arm while Sybille held the other to help him down the stairs.  
  
The bitch actually _smirked_ at Yagraz when she saw the Orc woman standing in the doorway. Smirked enough to show fang!  
  
“Ah, you’re done already? I didn’t expect to see you until the festival.”  
  
“This young man is quite intelligent,” Sybille cooly informed the headmaster as she helped Mohamara down the stairs. “Able to succinctly and professionally answer my questions with Mysticism and a quick study with Restoration. Had any of those things not been true, we likely would have been at it all day.”  
  
“It oddly makes a lot of sense for a Destruction master to be good at Restoration,” Mohamara commented, unaware that Yagraz was there and glaring _daggers_ at Sybille. “You have to know how to put yourself and your students back together if something goes wrong.”  
  
“There are only so many times you can trust a priest to fix an amputated hand before you get fed up and learn to do it yourself, young man.”  
  
When Mohamara was close, Yagraz bent down to snatch him up, and quickly stepped away from the monstrous woman.  
  
“My, overprotective, are we? Glad I got to speak to him when you weren’t around then, Companion.”  
  
Mohamara was trying to tell Yagraz how okay he was, but she knew better. Her eyes never left the smirking witch as the Orc backed up to the palace doors.  
  
“Mohamara, if you ever want to exchange more knowledge, feel free to come on by. We can talk over lunch.”  
  
Once outside, Viarmo gave Yagraz a befuddled look. “I know Lady Stentor has a harsh reputation, but that seemed excessive.”  
  
“You don’t know what I know about her,” Yagraz answered, and marched away with the Khajiit over her shoulder.  
  
“So you’re not going to put me down? Let me maybe get used to walking around blind since this isn’t going away for at least a week?" Mohamara looked over at Yagraz, then splayed himself out on her shoulder like a dead animal. "Just going to give me the cold shoulder, huh? Guess I have no choice but to play like you killed me out hunting for a bit. Blah!”  
  
\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those three books are Fast Healing, Heal Other, and Sunfire, btw.


	12. Save us from the Queen!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Necromancers aren't people, says local cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are now imagining Mohamara in a cat carrier. Have fun with that.

  
\---  
**Chapter 12: Save us from the Queen!**  
  
Back at the Winking Skeever, Yagraz filled Mohamara in on certain… details that she’d left out earlier.  
  
The tojay paused in getting changed out of the Jarl-meeting-clothes to something fit for adventure to glare in Yagraz’s direction. “She’s a _vampire?_ ”  
  
Yagraz sighed and made an affirmative noise since Mohamara couldn’t see her nod. “I know because I came to Solitude like three years or so back. She gave me and my Shield-Sister a job to destroy a rabid vampire coven that was north of the city, kidnapping people from the docks to feed.”  
  
Mohamara curled his lip in disgust while his fur stood on end. It made him look rather fluffy even though it was not friendly body language. “Ugh, I can’t believe I let her touch me. If I could see, I would have been able to tell right away--....” Mohamara got a set of red and white robes on and turned to look at Yagraz again. “You’ve known about her being there for... years?”  
  
The Orc woman put her hands over her face and groaned. “She’s too strong to kill discreetly, and in too public of a position to be able to get a solid chance. I figured once I found you, we could plan something out to kill her, have some fun, you know?” Yagraz found herself being repeatedly bapped on the head by the tojay’s small fists. “Hey, what gives?”  
  
“I’m trying to knock some sense into you! You’re Yagraz gro-Dushnikh, you Broke the Dragon to find me, made yourself a Companion again, and became one of the most badass people I know--and you complain that your enemy is _too strong_?!” Mohamara broke free of the Orc’s grip when she tried to stop his attack by picking him up and promptly became a literal ankle biter. A rather ineffective one given the thickness of Yagraz’s boots. “Malacath would kick your ass himself for that sort of talk! But he’s not here so I’ll do it for him!”  
  
The Orc woman looked down, stunned by the Khajiit attacking her so ineffectively. As she processed what he’d said, it was like a knot in her head suddenly unraveled. She could breathe deeper, her limbs responded just a fraction of a second faster, and colors seemed more vibrant. While Mohamara continued to gnaw on her, Yagraz stood and stretched.  
  
Bones that had been out of alignment for years that she hadn’t noticed popped back into place, filling the air with a rapid series of pops and cracks. With her face set, she picked up the tojay again and held him at arm’s length while he tried to wriggle free. “You’re right. Malacath would be disgusted with me. So the first thing we're gonna do when we get back from Wolfskull cave is killing that bitch dead. Alright?”  
  
“Alright. ...Are you okay, that was a lot of popping in your back and shoulders. Kinda sounded like it hurt.”  
  
Yagraz’s expression was through grit teeth: “It’s starting to hurt real bad, yep.”  
  
\--  
  
After Yagraz had an hour to rest, the two of them were off to Wolfskull. Fortunately, it was not terribly far from Solitude itself--the hill that led up to the city stopped in view of Mount Kilkreath, and from there they simply had to follow the ancient worn path up the mountain to Meridia’s temple. Even though his Lady could not hear his prayers without the beacon, Mohamara prayed at her statue. There was always the chance that someone of the faith elsewhere in Skyrim was constructing a new beacon, which would allow the Daedra of Infinite Energies to hear him again.  
  
Wolfskull cave was a peculiar thing--a fortress hidden under the ground. Towers, portcullises, gatehouses and all. The common theory back when Mohamara lived in the temple was that these structures were part of an ancient fortress that had since been buried. But whatever the fortifications, they proved hopelessly ill-equipped to handle an Orc Tongue with a spell-reflecting, atronach summoning, phat heals providing Khajiit riding on her shoulders.  
  
Mohamara regretted only that he couldn’t see any of the necromancers’ faces when they shot off things like ice spears that bounced off him and impaled their casters on a cave wall. Or how a fruit salad atronach had managed to toss a Draugr Wight over forty feet as Yagraz claimed.  
  
The fruit salad atronach fought like a demon according to Yagraz, tearing through the ranks of the undead and necromancers that disgracefully lurked in the cave. Occasionally, Mohamara could hear it mutter ‘yummy yummy’. He almost missed it when it eventually faded away.  
  
Yagraz described a dangerous scene when they went further in--a spectral woman floating above a tower in an underground fort. Surrounded by energies that drew from slain merchants, bandits, hunters, and soldiers littered around the cave--and being beseeched by necromancers.  
  
They called this ghost-woman ‘Potema’, which Mohamara found weird to be a name. It was a word in his time, potemal--meaning to be relentlessly cruel and selfish. Perhaps whoever the name belonged to had been the impetus behind the word’s creation.  
  
The necromancers performing the ritual were attempting to call this ‘Potema’ back into the living world--already an oddity given the nature of resurrection magic. They made no reference to a realm of Oblivion or dominion of Aetherius from which they summoned Potema _from_ \--could she have survived as a loosed soul on Nirn?  
  
“Do you know anything about this Potema woman?” Mohamara asked while summoning another atronach. Whatever it was, it made a hideous oozing sound and drew ghastly screams out of its first victim.  
  
But she was a necromancer, so her suffering was a good thing.  
  
“Former queen of Solitude, had a kid who became Emperor, started a civil war way back when.” Yagraz’s answers were slowed down by chopping the legs out from under a Draugr Deathlord. A necromancer tried to sneak up behind her but she ended his miserable life by bashing the boss of her shield into his skull without looking. “Oh, and she’s Dragonborn so if that’s important, there you go.”  
  
That explained how Potema had lingered on Nirn so long--dragons and Dragonborn could only be killed by each other. Their physical bodies could be slain, but their souls would remain bound to their bones until a dragon or other Dragonborn passed by to absorb their soul.  
  
It also meant that without knowing Potema’s Dovah-Zul name, the necromancers’ attempt to bind her would fail no matter what they did. Which then gave Mohamara a wicked idea. “Alright, I need you to toss me at the tower where they’re doing the ritual.”  
  
Yagraz stopped in the middle of decapitating another necromancer, who politely curled up onto the ground to cradle her stump of a left arm. “Want to run that by me again, short-stuff?”  
  
“Toss me at the ritual site. I’m going to have fun with them since they can’t do much in the middle of their binding attempt.”  
  
“And if they _can_ do something while trying to bind her?”  
  
“Then that makes things so much more interesting!” In a few seconds, Mohamara was sailing through the air until his flight path was intercepted by a woman. While Mohamara hit the ground after their collision, the woman was knocked backward and fell off the top of the tower into the cavern below. “Howdy, necromancer filth! How’s your health plan?”  
  
“What the-? An intruder! Stop hi-ckhhhh!”  
  
Mohamara stopped whatever the necromancer had been intending by summoning another atronach. The atronach was large, a physical fighter, and ended the woman’s life with a satisfying _crunch_.  
  
“Yes! Yes, destroy the worms that would dare bind me!” Potema seemed to enjoy the show as well. The last necromancer, a man, foolishly tried to raise his fallen comrade as a thrall to fight back and was… well, whatever the atronach did to him resulted in a long, high pitched scream that resonated throughout the cavern.  
  
Mohamara pouted. “Aw, that wasn’t amusing at all. It just killed them. I was hoping it would put up only enough fight to let me make some funny lines about their mothers and how they dressed them.”  
  
“The wretched so rarely provide worthy amusement, little one.” Potema’s voice was close, entirely too close for Mohamara’s liking. A faint aura of static sent his fur on end as a hand so cold it _burned_ rested on his shoulder. “When I am at my full potential again, I will kill you raise you, and show you how to find proper fun with creatures such as them to thank you for freeing me like this.”  
  
“Um. You’re not my type?”  
  
“Await my arrival, worm. Until then, farewell!”  
  
The static and cold-burning hand left Mohamara, and distantly he could hear Yagraz shout “Where the fuck is _she_ going?!”  
  
Mohamara tapped into the sympathetic bonds of the place, following the bonds between the necromancers to the altar, and from the altar to Potema to find her heading… toward Solitude. Uh oh.  
  
“Um, atronach? Could you help me get to the shouting Orc lady quickly?” Mohamara hoped by the Yellow Room that the atronach he summoned wasn’t acidic, and soon felt alarmingly human hands pick him up and thunderously walk down the stairs from the tower roof. Soon enough Mohamara and Yagraz were together again, pincering the last holdout of necromancers and Draugr between them. “Okay, so I might have accidentally let the object of that necromantic ritual loose and now she’s on her way to Solitude. So we should hurry.”  
  
Yagraz made an exasperated noise and took the tojay from the atronach and put him on her shoulders again. “Next time you want me to toss you, I’m going to say no.”  
  
“That’s fair.”  
  
\--  
  
Meanwhile, in Solitude’s Blue Palace, Jarl Elisif the Fair found herself shaken to wakefulness in the dead of night. When she opened her eyes, it was to find her court wizard, Sybille Stentor standing over her with a retinue of guards behind her.  
  
“What is the meaning of this?” The Jarl demanded as she stood from the bed.  
  
“My Jarl, my divinations reveal that you are in grave danger. A powerful evil has been unleashed and is about to attack the Blue Palace.” The Breton wizard snapped her fingers and the guards quickly retrieved a robe for Elisif to wear over her nightgown, as well as the Jarl’s circlet. “I must ask you to come with me to a bunker in Castle Dour, through the Temple of the Divines while Falk plans the defense of the city.”  
  
The Jarl’s mind whirled with possible outcomes, so much that she mechanically dressed in the items her guards had retrieved. “Al-alright, I will. But I want the townsfolk protected at all costs. Inform Falk that I want the city evacuated before this attack comes. And-and send word to General Tullius as well.”  
  
“It will be done, my Queen.”  
  
This gave Elisif pause, and she turned to look at the wizard with visible confusion. “Did you just call me ‘Queen’.”  
  
“I’m sorry, my _Jarl_.” The Breton hastily inclined her head. “I only attempted a divination before bed as a whim, once we are secure in the bunker I will need to rest and regain my full mental faculties.”  
  
“If we survive this attack, court wizard, I order you to take a vacation. I won’t have my late husband’s best friend work herself to death on my watch.”  
  
\--  
  
The dynamic duo rushed to Solitude, with Mohamara recharging the Spear of Bitter Mercy with soul gems that Yagraz had filled for him.  
  
However, they were stopped at the outermost defenses to Solitude by three High Elves--a Thalmor officer and two golden-armored soldiers.  
  
“Halt,” the officer shouted, and held a hand up to stop Yagraz. “You are carrying a fugitive from the-... I said halt! Halt!” But the officer’s shouts were not answered.  
  
Yagraz kept on running, trampling over her and leaving the Thalmor officer pressed into the ground with deep footprints on her body. The two soldiers that had been with her wisely chose to flee the scene rather than chase after the Orc and her Khajiit friend.  
  
“Where is she, short-stuff?”  
  
Mohamara dove into the sympathetic bonds of Solitude again. Still, they were so fine he couldn’t see most of them. But a tangle of bonds led up to Castle Dour, the temple, and somehow deep _deep_ into the Solitude archway. “Start in the temple of the divines, I can get a better picture from there.”  
  
“When we get a big soul gem next, I would _really_ like a Red Shoes enchantment for this sort of thing, by the way. My feet are killing me.” Even still, Yagraz easily scaled the ramps that had previously been insurmountable by Mohamara and passed into the Castle Dour courtyard.  
  
Where they found Elisif, in a nightgown and coat, along with four Solitude guards and Sybille. Yagraz rested her hand on her ax but otherwise carefully approached while the Jarl looked at them in confusion.  
  
“What’s going on, my Jarl? Had a late night crisis of faith?”  
  
The Jarl didn’t get a chance to speak before Sybille scoffed in disgust. “Those fools didn’t even do any fatal damage to you two? Oh well, guards--kill them and bring their corpses to me.”  
  
“What? Guards you will do no such--” Elisif protested, shocked at the court wizard’s orders but the Breton woman touched two fingers to the Jarl’s head and she fainted right into Sybille’s arms. The vampire then dashed into the temple with her, leaving the door ajar.  
  
The guards spoke no words and drew their steel. As Yagraz drew her ax, Mohamara lept from her shoulders, over the guards, and pursued the vampire and kidnapped Jarl.  
  
“So,” Yagraz said through a vicious smile as the guards moved to surround her. “How’s your health plan?”  
  
\--  
  
It had been a stupid idea to follow a powerful vampire that had a hostage, Mohamara decided as he chased after the sympathetic bonds that were Elisif and Sybille.  
  
“Not really stupid, so much as _mad_ I’d say.”  
  
“Hey dad,” Mohamara muttered to Sheogorath as he carefully navigated downstairs he couldn’t see.  
  
Sheogorath made a delighted noise, a squeal that made Mohamara’s teeth itch. “Been promoted to bitter affection! Yes! Haskill will be so proud.”  
  
“I’m kinda busy, is this important?” Mohamara didn’t position his foot correctly and ended up skipping a level of the staircase that he barely managed to keep from fully falling. It seemed to him that tojay were _definitely_ visual hunters because his hearing hadn’t adjusted enough to imply auditory.  
  
“Of course it’s important. _I’m_ important, so anything I do is important. Also, things I tell you to do are important. Such as becoming a bard!” Mohamara was scooped off his feet by a Daedra he couldn’t _see_ , who might not have actually been physically present and shook around in the air. “And you did it! Missed the announcement, but they gave ya the metaphoric diploma with the fire festival thingy. Glad to see you put my orders above your duty to Meri-pants by the way, though I doubt she’ll feel the same.”  
  
The Khajiit’s blood was was ice as he processed what Sheogorath had said. “But… but you were gonna--”  
  
“I wasn’t going to do _anything_ if you didn’t make it a priority. All I said was it was an order. You had to do it at _some_ point. But you were afraid of what _I_ might do more than what Meri-pants would do to you in that situation.” The Mad God hugged Mohamara so tight it was hard for the Khajiit to breathe. “Thank you for that by the way. It’s always a father’s dream to have their children absolutely _terrified_ of their wrath.”  
  
For a moment, Mohamara forgot that there was a Dragonborn ghost at large, a vampire with a hostage, or that he was likely floating over a staircase that would spell his doom if he fell down on it and became a listless cat. He’d betrayed his Lady. It was a difficult thing to process. But, maybe if he killed the vampire she’d let it balance out and not smite him on the spot?  
  
“Aw, don’t you worry none, sonnie. I’ll be a good parent and take the blame for you. It’ll be our little secret, hmm?” Sheogorath released the tojay and set him back on his feet. “By the way--we’ve got it down to two candidates for your groom. I’m afraid this is the first marriage of this type I’ve put together, so Haskill thought it would be a good idea if We provide a dowry for you rather than ask one of someone else. Assuming you survive this little adventure, anyway.”  
  
That information restored to Mohamara his will to live, even for fearful reasons. “Um. Wait!” Mohamara tried to find where Sheogorath was in relation to him and eventually felt out the Daedra’s hand. His mind raced for a way to keep _that_ horrid fate far away for as long as possible. “D-did you talk to mom about it?”  
  
“... Do you _want_ me to talk to your mother about it?” Sheogorath’s voice seemed genuinely puzzled but grew more excited as he spoke. “I mean, it would be nice to chat with her again. And bringing this up out of the blue will make things so _amusingly_ awkward. You know, you’re right! I _should_ speak to her about this.” Sheogorath moved away from the Khajiit and started up the stairs. “It’ll delay things considerably, but the end result is sure to be so _fun!_ I can’t wait. Seeya, son!” There was a distinct _pop_ to give Mohamara the impression the Mad God had left.  
  
His doom forestalled by a little while, Mohamara started back down the stairs. Except he was already at the bottom, he realized. “I swear, if he keeps showing up like that I’ll start to get gray fur before I’m thirty.”  
  
“ _I_ swear if you keep running off into danger when you’re _literally blind_ I will invent the cat carrier just for you!” Yagraz told him from the top of the stairs as she slid down them on a wooden plank of some kind before scooping up the Khajiit once more when she made it to the bottom. “Figured there would be some stairs to slow you down, let’s go.”  
  
\--  
  
After killing their way through Draugr, lesser vampires, and an excessive number of skeletons, they got to a section of Solitude’s catacombs that strongly resembled a Nordic tomb.  
  
“Potema!” Sybille’s voice echoed through the ruins as the duo made it deeper in. “This vessel, prepared for you, will let you fully return to this realm. Consume her soul, and let her body be your second life!”  
  
“Potema!” Mohamara called back as Yagraz kicked in the door to a tiered room in which the spectral woman floated, sarcophagi lined the walls, and Sybille stood over Elisif’s sleeping form with a knife. “Look at me!” When the ghost turned her head to behold Mohamara, Yagraz tugged on his leg to send the signal. “Bitch.”  
  
“How in the shores of Coldharbour are the two of you _still alive?!_ ” Sybille looked over her shoulder, stood and gathered fire in her free hand. “You’re just two worthless peons too short-sighted to see that this has all been built up to for hundreds of ye-argh!”  
  
With Sybille talking so much Mohamara had time to line up a bolt of holy sunlight and struck the vampire square in her previously perfect face. “I think the fuck not, you trick-ass bitch. Have at thee!”  
  
Potema directed her swirling vortex of energy into the sarcophagi, unleashing the Draugr from within, which Yagraz met with gleeful abandon. The reflect spells effect of the Spear of Bitter Mercy proved invaluable when Potema herself would attack with great bolts of lightning, or Sybille launched superheated balls of fire at the Orc and Khajiit.  
  
Though outnumbered, even with the watermelon atronach Mohamara summoned, it seemed that the tide of battle was going in their favor until Sybille managed to grab Mohamara and yank him off Yagraz’s shoulders while the Orc was busy blocking two greatswords from two different Draugr Wights.  
  
“If you want something done right,” the vampire snarled, holding Mohamara up by his robe and letting the human facade of her face slip away, “do it yourself, I guess.”  
  
“Isn’t it customary to grant the condemned one final request?” Mohamara tried to swing Bitter Mercy at Sybille, but she yanked it from his grip and cast it aside.  
  
“Not for the likes of you.” Sybille opened her mouth wide, baring her fangs, but instead found herself biting into a watermelon fired from the atronach.  
  
Sensing an opening, Mohamara did what was becoming an alarmingly frequent thing--ditch his robes and go hunting for the spear in the direction he’d heard it clatter. “Either I’m getting too good at that, or people need to stop grabbing me by my clothes.” As if to answer his request, Mohamara felt a mummified Draugr hand grab onto his tail while he felt around for the spear, and yank him backward. “Ow ow ow ow!”  
  
“Archers! Aim! Fire!” A female’s voice rang out through the air, and many twangs of bows filled the air. The Draugr that had been holding Mohamara fell to the ground, dead with many arrows protruding from its back and skull. From the doorway, a squad of five Legion soldiers stood in formation, three crouched in front, two standing behind. And behind them was a Nord woman in the metal armor of an Imperial Legate. “Draw steel, put every undead in here to the sword!” The Legate and her soldiers advanced into the room, shifting from bows to swords as they went and joined the fray.  
  
Sybille had only just gotten the watermelon out of her mouth when the Legate grabbed her by her hair, and shoved Imperial steel entirely through the vampire’s mouth and out her neck. It took a moment for her to die, her flesh drying out and becoming dust as the Legate watched.  
  
“No! It will not end like this!” Potema released a shockwave that knocked the Imperials, and Yagraz to the ground as she fled behind a sealed door. The Orc was the first on her feet to bash down the door and pursue the specter.  
  
“Get the Jarl and the boy out of here, Auxiliary. Everyone else, follow that ghost!”  
  
“W-wait, I’m not--” Mohamara was cut off by an unfamiliar hand grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him to his feet.  
  
“Don’t worry, son,” an Imperial-accented voice told him as he was forced out of the room. “Legion’s here to save the day!”  
  
The watermelon atronach, with no orders and no enemies left to kill, dissipated and left thirty perfectly good melons behind.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those melons will go to waste because no one wants to eat watermelons with Draugr bits stuck in 'em. Right unsanitary, that.


	13. What comes next?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara makes a fool out of himself.

**Chapter 13: What comes next?**

 

When they got back to the temple of the divines, Mohamara heard far too many people at work for how early in the morning it was.  The Auxiliary dragged him through several checkpoints, thankfully at one of which someone gave him a blanket to cover up with.  From words he overheard from the Legionaries there was a widespread mobilization of troops.  Something about a Stormcloak attack on Morthal?

“Hold it, Auxiliary,” a gruff voice spoke with weight.  “That’s Jarl Elisif?”

“Yes, General Tullius sir!”  The soldier that had seen to Mohamara and Elisif’s evacuation stood at attention and released the cat presumably to salute.  “Legate Rikke ordered me to see her and this boy out of the combat zone, sir.”

“You think that’s a child do you, soldier?”  There was someone crouched down in front of Mohamara, he could tell by the way he felt a breath tinged with Imperial wine puff in his face.  “This is a tojay Khajiit, fully grown.  Shame about the blindness though.  You okay, cat?” 

“Yes, um… General Tullius was it?”  Mohamara inclined his head in the direction the wine-breath was coming from.  “Your Legate… Rikke and her men are the reason why a Draugr didn’t get the chance to chop me up, I think.” 

“Rikke is one of my best, glad she could get you out of there, son.”  The wine-breath faded away, and the General addressed the Auxiliary.  “Get the Jarl to the Blue Palace staff, then check with the Thalmor to see if they’re missing any Khajiit.  You’re dismissed.” 

“Sir!”  The Auxiliary once more grabbed Mohamara’s wrist and the cat realized he should have run when they had a chance.  It was a few minutes of silent marching later when the Auxiliary spoke up again, in a whisper.  “You in trouble with the Thalmor?  Your fur’s standing up on end.” 

“Yeah,” Mohamara answered.  He hadn’t noticed his fur poofing out and hastily started to pat it down.

“Wish I could help you, but orders are orders.” 

“Don’t worry about it, once my Orc friend gets back up here we’ll get it all sorted out.  You could just leave me with the Jarl’s people and I can fill them in on what happened down there?”  It was a slim hope, but Mohamara had to try.  The sounds of Castle Dour faded and were replaced with the sounds of the Avenues district which in turn soon became replaced with the Blue Palace’s silence.

“Jarl Elisif!”  Another voice Mohamara couldn’t put a face to, one he had heard from the court advising against sending forces to secure Wolfskull, cried out in shock and the sound of slippered feet came rushing over.  “She isn’t _dead_ , is she?”

“No, just sleeping.”  Mohamara looked up in the Auxiliary’s direction.  “I could have dispelled that by the way, but this way meant you brought me with you all the way to the Blue Palace and away from the Thalmor.”  The Khajiit grinned, ideally into a scowling Imperial face.

“…That’s fair, I guess,” the Auxiliary muttered.  “Do you have a place I can set her down, so the cat can wake her up, lord Firebeard?”

“Yes, yes right this way.”  ‘Firebeard’ led them into the palace and right into the foyer.

Mohamara hoped that the man actually dyed his beard a mix of red, orange, and yellow to mimic fire or he’d question the worthiness of the name.  Once Elisif was set down Mohamara easily Dispelled the sleep that had been placed on her.  For all the talking he had done with Stentor about Mysticism, she never seemed to piece together that it was possible to shatter the sympathetic bonds between a spell, its effects, and its target.

When Elisif woke, it was with violent outrage as she instinctively lashed out and punched Mohamara square in the face as he was the closest one to her.  It was then that the tojay remembered she was a Nord, and Nords seemed to have a racial ability to throw strong punches.

What followed was an explanation of the situation with Potema, Stentor, and why the cat had been dungeon diving while blind.

“The answer to that might upset certain people in attendance, my Jarl,” Mohamara said when Elisif put the third question to him.  “Are you sure you want the answer?”

“Yes.  My life was at risk—my _subject’s_ lives were at risk.”  Elisif’s voice was brisk and uneasy, riding an emotional wave to make it seem like she was fine when likely she was far from it.  “I cannot spare the time to care about people’s feelings right now.” 

“Well, it was because people like Stentor… and your steward didn’t think it was important enough to bother with.”  Mohamara’s tail flicked a bit in agitation, remembering the appeal from Varnius just the day before.  “If they were right, I would have been fine, and if they were wrong then I wanted to be in a spot where I could help.  And staying behind would have meant letting my friend go in there alone.” 

“My Jarl,” Firebeard started, then paused for a moment.  “You were right, and I was wrong.  If we had sent a legion into the cave, perhaps this situation could have been avoided.”

“Unlikely.”  The tojay wagged his finger at where the steward’s voice came from.  “The binding ritual the necromancers were going to use on Potema didn’t include her Dovahzul name.  No matter what happened, she would have gotten free and made her way into those catacombs.  Unless of course one of those soldiers you sent in happened to be Dragonborn.” 

“I think I’d notice if one of my fellow soldiers had scales and wings,” the Auxiliary tried to crack a joke, but instead earned the unwavering stares of the Jarl and the steward.  Mohamara’s stare was diminished by the band of cloth in front of his eyes.  “Sorry.”

“You said your friend, the Orc Companion, she knew about Sybille being a vampire for years?”  Elisif addressed Mohamara, who nodded.  “Heh, I wonder who else knew and thought me a puppet for her.  …Falk?”

“There were rumors, my Jarl, and nothing more.”  Firebeard—Falk—seemed to have regained confidence in himself since apologizing.  “Sybille wasn’t well liked in the city, but I can’t say I heard many people accusing her of wickedness like this.” 

“Vampires are products of Molag Bal violating women,” Mohamara started to recite what he had heard in Temple about the many types of undead.  “Like dragons that have a deep-seated desire for power and domination.  This can make them rabid for power, or insidious in their plots.  She could have had you under a spell and you’d be perfectly fine with her—perhaps someone _did_ start accusing her of this and she made you forget.  Since she likely didn’t write it down, we’ll never know.  With her skill in Restoration, she could have been _feeding_ off you and you’d never notice.”

Though Mohamara could not see it, Elisif quickly placed her hand around her neck—feeling for any bite marks. 

“That… I want to say you’re blowing this out of proportion.”  The steward spoke again.  “But after hearing that Sybille was part of a plot to resurrect Potema, I can’t rule anything out.”

An awkward silence started but was eventually broken by the Auxiliary coughing.  “Well, Jarl Elisif I’m glad you’re okay.  But I have my orders—I need to take this Khajiit with me to the Thalmor.” 

“But he’s with the bard’s college, not the Dominion,”  Elisif spoke up for Mohamara and stood up from the way her bench creaked suddenly.  “I demand to know why you must hand him over to the Thalmor, soldier.”

“Well—the General’s orders were to see if the Thalmor were missing Khajiit, and the Khajiit said--”

“I am a citizen of the Tamrielic Empire,” Mohamara quickly started, standing between the Auxiliary and Elisif.  Fortunately, the hegemonic Empire he’d come from in the Twenty-First Era had decided on a throwback name which meant technically Mohamara wasn’t lying.  “Born and raised in Skyrim—in Haafingar, even, on Mount Kilkreath.  I am one of _your_ citizens, Jarl Elisif.  Don’t let them hand me over to the Dominion just because I’m a Khajiit.  Please?” 

“I… I don’t want to, but General Tulius….”  Elisif probably had an understandably difficult relationship with the foreign military leader in her city, it was hinted at in her tone. 

So Mohamara took off the cloth over his eyes and turned up his ‘cute cat face’ to maximum levels.  It was his last way of killing time before Yagraz caught up with him. 

“Under article sixteen, section twelve of the White-Gold Concordat,” Falk declared like he was announcing a royal decree.  “The Dominion cannot pursue legal action against citizens of the Tamrielic Empire who are not in breach of the clause concerning the worship of Talos.  And under the Provincial charter for Skyrim, even in times of war the Empire cannot detain or extradite people in a Jarl’s court without a writ from the Emperor himself.”  There was a moment of silence while the humans worked their minds and Mohamara kept his ‘cute eyes’ up. 

“I recall you bringing up a topic of a patronage for the bard’s college when we last spoke, yes?  I hereby grant your request and offer you the position.  Will you accept?”  When Mohamara, naturally, accepted, Elisif directed a question to Falk.  “There used to be court Skalds, or bards of Jarls, yes?”

“Ah, not quite my lady.  It, um… the official title was ‘court jester’ or ‘fool’.  Sometimes ‘knave’, but that was back in the time of the First Era.”

“If it means I don’t get High Elves sticking sharp metal things in my skin until I tell them things, I will gladly accept any of those titles,” Mohamara informed the Jarl and steward.  “Hell, you can call me ‘royal cat’ and I will only consider you sort-of racist.”

Elisif snrrked at Mohamara’s joke.  “Okay, I’ll consider the ‘royal cat’ thing if I ever actually become High Queen.”  Her tone became far more formal, presumably as she was addressing the Auxiliary.  “Inform the General that this Khajiit is part of my court, and I do not take kindly to him attempting to violate the Provincial charter of Skyrim, even unintentionally.  You are dismissed, soldier.”

The Auxiliary left with little resistance.  Likely he only resisted the idea at all because it meant he had to report directly to the General.  And no one wants to tell their boss that their other boss is mad at them.

\--

Mohamara, the new ‘Fool of Solitude’ for a little while at least, was given a guard to escort him back to the city to locate Yagraz.  Which turned out to be easy—she was in the Winking Skeever having drinks with the Legate who had saved the day down in Potema’s crypt, Rikke.  “I’m so glad that while I was risking being sent to the Thalmor,” Mohamara told her, voice flat, “you were getting wasted.”

“Short-stuff, you woulda gotten out.”  Yagraz pointed at him with her bottle of mead, and almost spilled it on the floor.  “Just had to get naked-er and run away like you did in Markarth.”

The tojay scowled in Yagraz’s general direction while she snickered.  “I don’t know if I’m more annoyed that you brought that up in public, or that it would probably work.  Still, I know how to get vengeance on you come tomorrow.”  With a self-assured stance, Mohamara stumbled his way to his room.

As it turned out, however, when the next morning came Yagraz was not in an awful hangover like Mohamara expected, so he could not have his vengeance in that way.  So, he roped her into his backup vengeance.

Talking to every. Single. Person in Solitude about how they felt about Elisif, what they liked and what they disliked.  Every store owner, every dock worker, every child running through the streets, every beggar on the corner, every madman wandering the alleys about how his master was vitally needed.  There was only one of those, however.

Mohamara recorded their responses with his slate and started to work on the final report to present to Elisif.  Fortunately, the Burmice servitor was able to take dictation for hands-free writing.  Which meant that he could have his Yagraz mount travel to the bard’s college for review.

Naturally, Viarmo thought it to be far too critical of Elisif but he understood once Mohamara explained it was the sentiments of the citizens which Elisif was paying him for.

“Alright, I’m sorry for leaving you alone to almost get snatched by Thalmor,” Yagraz finally admitted on the approach to the Blue Palace.

Mohamara adjusted the hood of the Jarl’s court outfit he’d switched into and made himself as comfortable as he could on the Orc’s shoulders.  “And?”

“And for telling an entire bar about an embarrassing story you told me in confidence.”

“There we go, you’re forgiven.”  The tojay made sure nothing was going to get caught on Yagraz’s shoulder spikes, then hopped off to walk on his own.  “Now let’s go wreck a Jarl’s day.”

As a member of the court, Mohamara didn’t have to wait in the foyer with the few people seeking an audience, he could stand among the Thanes and delight in how they tried to politely shoo him away.

After a proposal for a parade was dismissed, considering a recent Stormcloak attack on the city of Morthal, Elisif addressed the blind cat.  “Ah, my Fool returns so soon.  Composed a little ditty about how my people feel for me, yet?”

“Indeed, my Jarl.”  Mohamara bowed in her general direction while moving to the middle of the throne room.  “And that is a prelude to how this is going to go, I’m afraid.  If you would like to receive it with just you and the steward in the room?”

“No, no.  I would like my entire court to hear what the people think of me, so they can all help to improve upon it.”

“As you wish.”  Mohamara cleared his _t_ hroat and made it look like he was reading from his slate while breaking out into lyrical [speech.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a03tcOTlUK0) _“You say: The price of this war is a price that you’re willing to pay.”_  He pointed opposite the Jarl’s throne, to indicate the city outside.   _“They cry; in fields, on the hills or at sea after battle goes by.  Why so blue?”_

The palace itself was indicated, though the people felt more it was that Elisif had been in mourning for far too long given a war going on.   _“The one at the risk of dying out there isn’t you.  Am I making you mad?  If you’re sick of lying, then I’m your man.”_  Falk had been completely wrong about how many people complained about Stentor, to the point where Falk himself was considered an unscrupulous liar.  But the song wasn’t about him.  Mohamara gestured with wide arms to Elisif, _“what comes next?  You’ve been freed.  Do you even really want to lead?”_ The next part saw Mohamara show off his high-jump capabilities to show excitement.   _“Potema’s dead.  Awesome!  Wow!”_

All amusement left Mohamara’s body language, but not his expression for the next part.   _“Do you want to know what happens now?  Oceans rise, Empires fall!”_  The citizens had been with her in supporting the Empire, but more than half of them thought the institution was past the tipping point and would fail on its own.   _“Except now it’s really your call.  So, when push comes to shove, will you rule them all with fear or with love?”_

Part of the job of a Fool was to get people to laugh, so a ridiculous dance number during a cool down period for his voice.  A bit of self-healing during the dance allowed him to keep going after without fear of his voice cracking.   _“They say their coin is draining and they can’t go on! To you, they’ll be complaining when it's all gone.”_  Mohamara cartwheeled over to the Jarl’s throne, sidestepped the armored and thus noisy housecarl who tried to stop him and leaned against the back of the Jarl’s fancy chair.  Even seated, he knew she would be taller than him.   _“And I will not change the subject.  For these are your own subjects.  Your less than happy subjects.  Your loyal “royal” subjects.”_  The use of air quotes marked Mohamara leaving the throne zone, jumping up, landing on the housecarl’s head and leaping away to his starting position.

_“What comes next?  Like those before, will you fight the fight and win the war?”_  If he had been aware of the late High King’s portrait in the throne room, he could have used that to drive the point even deeper. But he didn’t so he just turned his back on Elisif and spread his arms toward the city of Solitude. _“For their love, for their praise?  So they’ll love you till their dying days?”_  Again, the cat drastically moved position, spinning his way toward where Stentor had stood during the court proceedings last time.   _“When you're gone, will they be glad?  And tell everyone how you were bad?  So, when push comes to shove…”_  The housecarl was making another attempt to grab him, Mohamara could tell from the sudden approach of steel plate boots. _“Will you rule them all with fear—”_ he jumped over the man’s grab at him, landed on his back and bounded away to drive the housecarl face-first into the wall.   _“Or with love?”_

A final bow marked the end of the performance, to weak applause.  Expected, considering he’d gone with the tune of an Eighteenth Era play’s music for the piece, and the subject matter.

“I’m… not sure I quite understood all of it,” Elisif started when the clapping ended.  “But from what I gather, the people are not happy with me for multiple reasons.”

“You are as foreign to them as General Tullius, my Jarl.”  Mohamara stood up and pretended to work on something on his slate.  “They know nothing about you, and think you’ll end up as a tyrant if this war keeps up.”

“Yes, that is one of the things I picked up on.”  The Jarl shifted on her throne, to address the court at large.  “How might this be remedied?”

“Lower the tax burden on the citizens,” a female Thane said.  “The East Empire Company can afford to pay more.”

“And if the Company decides to leave Solitude to go somewhere with fewer taxes?”  A male Thane responded to the other.  “Skyrim isn’t as rich as High Rock or Cyrodiil, they have no obligation to do business here.”

“My Jarl,” Mohamara spoke up again.  “Do you go to the temple of the divines often?”  Elisif responded in the negative, Mohamara sighed.  “Julianos tells the faithful ‘when in doubt, seek the wisdom of the wise.’  Your court can help you to rule Haafingar _efficiently_ , but perhaps you would be best served by asking your fellow Jarls for advice on how to keep your people happy?”

“In better times, I would agree.”  Elisif’s tone was sorrowful.  “But I’ve heard reports from Markarth and Morthal.  The people there are far from happy—and Jarl Siddgeir of Falkreath is even newer to ruling than I.”

“What about Whietrun, then?”  The female Thane once again spoke.  “Balgruuf holds no animosity towards you, and his people are happy enough.”

“If he’s the one to ask, my friend and I will be passing through Whiterun on a quest to retrieve some stolen property from Eastmarch.”  Mohamara gestured to Yagraz who stepped out of the shadows to look as menacing as possible.  “We could deliver the request and bring it back to you?”

“Oh, you’re leaving?  I thought… no, that’s perfect.”  Elisif clapped her hands, in an attempt to appear Jarl-ly.  “Falk, some quills and paper please, I need to write a letter to Jarl Balgruuf the Greater.  No, I will not dictate it, I will write it _myself_.”

\--

Yagraz and Mohamara soon found themselves on a carriage to Whiterun, paid for by the Jarl to speed them in delivering her letter.  It had been lowkey hilarious, according to Yagraz to watch the Jarl struggle with sealing wax when her missive was complete.  She assured Mohamara she’d snapped a picture of it on her micro-slate to share with him when he got his eyesight back.

On the road, they passed a pair of dueling wizards.  Apparently, they were fighting to see whom could apply to be Solitude’s new court wizard.  The carriage driver stopped at Yagraz’s insistence and the pair of them watched the fight while Mohamara asked for details every so often.  In a battle between ice and fire magic, fire had the advantage of lower cost to create and a sort of scaling damage—burning a person already on fire would double the amount of fire they were on.

Except the ice mage had one crucial advantage: Physical projectiles.  The fire was well and good, but it couldn’t defeat three ice spikes launched into the liver, lungs, and head at medium range.  Ice won the duel and marched up the road to Solitude.

After days of travel, Mohamara’s sight returned and he could see exactly how stupid he had looked with his Jarl’s court outfit.  The fabric was black velvet with garnets sewn into the color sleeves, hood and buttons with floral silver designs worked around them.

As the horse was given a break in Rorikstead around that time, the tojay decided to talk about it with Yagraz.  “Okay, _how much_ money did those elves owe you to use real fucking garnets in the buttons?”

Yagraz’s response was a wicked smile and whisper.  “I got them a deal with the Jarl of Whiterun—they do all his and his kid’s clothes.  So, _a lot_ is what they owed me.”

Mohamara boggled at the idea, he looked at Yagraz, and the real garnets sewn into the robe and still couldn’t process it.  But then his ears went flush against his head, and his tail began to thrash.  “If I go look at the smallclothes from them and find garnets I’m gonna--“

“Excuse me, young man?”  An elderly Breton from the town’s manor on the hill had come down while the two friends talked in the unhorsed carriage. He had a narrow face and wore quilted brown clothes.  “I heard from your coachman that you and your friend were coming from Haafingar?  Would you by any chance know Maria, who lives on Mount Kilkreath?”

Mohamara whipped his head around to look at the man while Yagraz leaned forward, with her hand on her ax.  “Yes,” the cat answered perhaps too quickly.  “I’m a friend of Maria’s.”

The old man’s face split open in a wide smile.  “Oh, happy day!  I’m also a friend of Maria’s, but I haven’t heard from her in so long, I thought maybe something had happened.”

“She’s… been kidnapped,” Mohamara carefully put it while looking around for any signs of a Vigilant ambush.  “My friend isn’t a friend of hers, but she’s a friend of mine, and is going to help me rescue her.”

“Maria?  Kidnapped?  Oh, how awful.”  The man’s excitement withered away quickly.  “No wonder she hasn’t responded to any of my invitations to come visit.  Where have those scoundrels taken her, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Eastmarch.  She’s being held in Eastmarch.”

The elderly Breton rubbed his chin in consideration.  “How could they have gotten her all the way to Eastmarch without crossing this way?  Oh, she’ll be so very cross with me for not noticing.”  He looked back up to the tojay, with plaintive eyes.  “Please, rescue Maria quickly.  Knowing her, she’ll want to go home straight away, so I’ll ask her to visit some other time.  If you can manage to see her back home—I’ll find a way to reward you.  Just come back to Rorikstead when it’s done and find me.  My name is Jouane Manette.”

“Mohamara Ahramani, and Yagraz gro-Dushnikh,” the tojay indicated himself and then Yagraz for the late introductions.

“Thank you for telling me the news and may the light of certitude guide you to Maria, and safely back.”  Without anything else to say, Jouane briskly walked away from the carriage and into the local bar.

“So,” Yagraz started after they were alone again.  “Want to give me the odds on him being a Rainbow Man, like you?  Ack!  Attack of the tail-snake!  I am defeated, laid low, and made a corpse by the assault of fluff!”

\---

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My best friend, who has been a big help with the fic in general, did a cover of Mohamara's little song. 
> 
> https://soundcloud.com/user-439609854/what-comes-next-mohamara-version
> 
> Please keep all criticism respectful and constructive.


	14. City on a Hill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yagraz and Mohamara arrive at Whiterun.

  
**Chapter 14: City on a Hill**  
  
On the road from Rorikstead to Whiterun, Mohamara and Yagraz encountered a conflicting sight. Three people in mages robes--that came with trousers, much to Mohamara’s irritation--but with armored extremities and melee weapons. From their battle cries, it wasn’t difficult to piece together that they were Vigilants of Stendarr. They were chasing a vampire Dunmer woman, dressed in bizarre layered armor that resembled spider webbing. The coachman was forced to stop because the battle spooked the horse to the point where she would go no further.  
  
This let the two Daedra worshippers talk amongst themselves about the situation.  
  
“They’re Vigilants, this is their job and I’m okay with letting them deal with one vampire on their own.” Yagraz’s expression was unusually hard and merciless. Not unexpected given that Dushnikh Yal, the largest Orc neighborhood in Skyrim, had historically been a target for Vigilant raids.  
  
“Yes, but it’s a _vampire_ ,” Mohamara countered. “She could be leading them into a trap, or have a way to turn them against each other.”  
  
Yagraz spat over the side of the wagon. “She’s out of tricks to pull. I know that run, it’s the run of someone afraid they’re gonna die.”  
  
Mohamara turned to watch the Vigilants chase the vampire across the hills. “What if they attract a sabre cat with all the noise they’re making? A sabre cat can kill those three no problem, and then come after us.” The tojay narrowed his eyes and looked over his shoulder at Yagraz. “Can either of us kill a sabre cat before it kills the horse?”  
  
“You know,” the coachman said with an unsteady tone. “That is an _excellent question_. I would also like the answer to.”  
  
Yagraz looked at the Vigilants chasing the vampire once more and sighed. “Slow her down and I can take her out from this distance no problem.”  
  
Pleased as punch that he got to kill a vampire, even if it meant helping Vigilants, Mohamara put his hands together and gathered the holy rays of the Sun. After leading the target, he launched the Sunfire bolt and watched it sail through the air to the vampire.  
  
It missed, but it hadn’t meant to hit, just to get the undead monster to stop from fear of the attack. Yagraz’s followup was immediate. She launched her skyforge steel ax through the air like the fury of Malacath and struck the Vampire in the spine.  
  
As the Vigilants descended on the crippled vampire to end her suffering with many mace blows, Mohamara considered the vampire. Who had she been, before she became a monster? Did she seek out the curse, or had it inflicted upon her? Did either of those things _matter_? The beast had become a disease upon living things, the likes of which Peryite couldn’t develop in his wildest dreams.  
  
Meridia didn’t mind that some of the faithful showed empathy for necromancers or undead, so long as they did their duty and put an end to the abominations. Mohamara remembered a sermon about the subject, which quoted the Lady addressing her fifth Champion thus:  
  
 _’You feel for the person that they might have been, had they not made this mistake. Your sorrow comes from the potential they had that was squandered by this course their life took. You see a tragedy because you are full of My anger, and My anger comes from grief.’_  
  
Mohamara looked up at the night sky as the Vigilants retrieved Yagraz’s ax and approached the carriage. The moons, two halves of a dead god’s corpse according to legend. The god that had tried to trick his Lady into giving her life for his ambitions. The tojay wondered if Lorkhan had added the undead to the World, and that was why his Lady had carved her way out at the very last moment.  
  
But then idle wonderings had to take a backseat to the Vigilants. They were getting close, so Mohamara threw his blood-stained quilt over the Spear of Bitter Mercy, lest they see the Daedric artifact.  
  
“Thank you, Companion,” the leader of the Vigilants, an Imperial woman declared and offered Yagraz her skyforge steel ax back. “Your assistance was invaluable.”  
  
“No problem,” Yagraz muttered in as close to a fake-polite voice as she ever got. “Always happy to put down a blood-sucker.”  
  
“May Stendarr guide your way.” The three Vigilants left off down the road, toward Rorikstead.  
  
With the battle over, it wasn’t long before the horse was calm enough to resume moving. “Well,” Mohamara said with a clap. “They didn’t even threaten you over being an Orc and likely worshipper of Malacath. So that was an overall net positive, I’d say.”  
  
Yagraz nodded, begrudgingly. “Yeah, one less vampire in the world and didn’t have to hurt any stupid humans.”  
  
“As a human,” the coachman started. “I would like to thank you for not killing my stupid kinsmen, Companion.”  
  
The two Daedra worshippers looked at the back of the coachman’s head, with different levels of confusion. It was so… unlike a human to call out others of his species, if not race, as being stupid for any reason. But then he spoke again and explained everything.  
  
“Hail Sithis.”  
  
\---  
  
Whiterun city was nowhere near the level it would be in sixteen thousand year’s time. It was strangely _haunting_ to see Dragonsreach palace looming over the horizon for hours before they got to the city’s edge. Mohamara had only seen the palace in historical paintings, and the attempt at a reconstruction for the Whiterun museum didn’t prepare him for the weight it had in sympathetic bonds alone.  
  
It had been said that the ways of Whiterun were the ways of the quintessential Nord, and feeling the sympathetic power that flowed in and out of, to him, ancient Whiterun convinced Mohamara it had to be true. For better or worse, the city influenced what it meant to be a Nord.  
  
It also stank of horses. And dogs. Mohamara had to actually cover his nose the first time the carriage was downwind of Whiterun city. Yagraz cackled in delight while Mohamara’s eyes watered from the _smell_ of the place.  
  
“How do Khajiit caravans _tolerate_ this,” he hissed while burying himself in his quilt. Even the faint smell of his own blood was preferable to the _reek_ of Whiterun. “Their noses are stronger than mine!”  
  
“It’ll get better when we’re past the farms,” the Orc told him with confidence. But she still giggled every time the cat poked his head out from under the quilt to sniff the air and violently retract. “Aw come on, horses and dogs don’t smell _that_ bad.”  
  
“I will never be able to forget this smell.” Mohamara rolled around in the quilt until he was safely underneath many layers of the blanket. The smell of dogs and horses managed to work its way through, but greatly weakened. He also realized soon that he couldn’t breathe from how tightly he had rolled his cocoon  
  
Yagraz got him out after he tried to do so himself, failed, and had to whine plaintively for help. So he had to suffer from the awful smell until the wind shifted. “Hey, there’s the caravan right outside the gatehouse.”  
  
Mohamara perked up and looked over the side of the carriage, still under his quilt. Sure enough, there was Ri’saad’s caravan milling about and doing business with some of the locals. “Do you mind if we stop there before going into the city?”  
  
“No problem, short-stuff. I’m going to get something for my girl from them if they have anything.”  
  
“You’ll want Atahbah, the one in the blue dress. She handles all the children’s toys and stuff. Plus I know she got some good dolls and things from…” Mohamara paused then turned around. “I’m sorry, I briefly forgot it was your daughter we’re talking about. The guy who handles small blades and such is that one in the green tunic and bandana. I think he has an elven dagger in stock that would be great for a little murderess in training.”  
  
“You’re such a thoughtful little guy.” Yagraz reached over and trapped the tojay in his quilt with a sudden hug. “You’ll be a great uncle at this rate!”  
  
“Mmph!”  
\--  
Mohamara greeted the cathay Khajiit as he bounded ahead of Yagraz on the way to the caravan site. Those who were not busy with customers greeted him warmly, though with confusion. When the tojay found Ri’saad he was discussing the price of an enchanted dwarven sword with a Nord woman in full plate armor. Given the sword had the Blessed enchantment, the elder cathay spun a story of how useful it would be against undead such as Draugr. The sale was made, the Nord woman walked away with a fine weapon, and Ri’saad earned a considerable amount of gold.  
  
His ears perked up when he saw Mohamara, though the tojay knew he’d been aware of the smaller Khajiit’s presence before. “Ja’khajiit, you return to us so soon. A bard, already? This one did not expect to see you again for a year’s time.”  
  
Mohamara’s tail went up and hooked at the end with apprehension as he stepped forward. “Yeah, I did some work for them, studied a little bit and they made me an honorary bard. That seemed to please Sh-... Skooma Cat. He told me so, himself.”  
  
“Is good that you do not have the threat of the Skooma Cat hanging over you any longer.” The elderly cathay leaned to one side and smiled faintly. “You have regrown your tail, also good.”  
  
“Yeah. Nice to be able to balance and jump properly again. But, um.” The tojay reached into his backpack and produced a small leather bag to hold out to the cathay. “Here. It’s not much, but I wanted to start paying you back for what you did for me.”  
  
Without complaint, Ri’saad took the bag and opened it up. Inside was all of Mohamara’s money and the garnets from Dead Man’s Respite. Without so much as blinking, Ri’saad closed the bag back up and put it under his coat collar. “Ja’khajiit, your debt to this one is not so great as you imagine. But thank you nonetheless.” Ri’saad sat on the rug at the door to his tent and patted the ground in front of him. “Sit. Tell Khajiit what has transpired since you left us.”  
  
Mohamara checked over his shoulder for Yagraz and saw her examining greatswords from the weapons vendor. Because of course, she would. He sighed and took the offered spot in front of the cathay. “Well to start off, I found out my best friend is in this time period too. Malacath taught her how to Break the Dragon.”  
  
Ri’saad’s droopy expression did not change. His body language did not change. But he leaned forward and whispered his reaction to the tojay: “What.”  
  
The tojay spent about ten minutes summarizing the events of his stay in Solitude, retrieving the lost verse of King Olaf, dealing with Potema and becoming the Fool of Solitude. Ri’saad said nothing but did direct a stern glare at any of his caravaneers that stopped in their duties to listen in for a bit too long.  
  
When the story was done, the elder cathay sighed, wistful. “To be young and have grand adventures again. No matter. Is good that you have a place in the Jarl’s court. Perhaps clever ja’khajiit can earn Ma’dran’s caravan the right to enter Solitude to do business like he did for this one at Markarth?”  
  
“I’d certainly try,” Mohamara nodded in agreement. “Still… I don’t know how long I’ll _be_ the Fool of Solitude, Elisif agreed to make it a temporary position.”  
  
“Any time you can spend in the Jarl’s court, to learn to give our people a chance is better than what we had before.” Ri’saad’s droopy face became a scowl. “Though, if the Hero of Kvatch could not teach the Imperials to give Khajiit a chance, perhaps nothing can.”  
  
Mohamara conveyed confusion through his ears and tail, prompting Ri’saad to tell the story of a suthay Khajiit that had become a storied hero in the Imperial province around the time of the Oblivion Crisis but had their name forgotten in the time since then. It had sparked a surge of Khajiit heroism in the hopes that Elsweyr could, at last, get desperately needed aid from the Empire. But to no avail.  
  
“It is why the homeland so readily joined the Thalmor,” Ri’saad admitted with a mix of bitterness and sorrow. “They at least pretended to care about the Khajiit. The Empire never did. But perhaps ja’khajiit can speak to many Jarls, and make the Nords a friend to Khajiit?”  
  
“Oh yes, that sounds completely possible.” The tojay’s voice was so heavy with sarcasm it almost slithered on the ground to reach Ri’saad. “How about I teach them that magic is perfectly fine while I’m at it--can’t be that tough.”  
  
The cathay patted Mohamara on the shoulder and quickly glanced to Yagraz who leaned on a wagon, silently watching. “Is it any less difficult than the plans you already had?” Ri’saad’s answer was silence and a completely unchanged expression. “You did _have_ plans, yes?”  
  
“Stay alive long enough to help my friend with hers, help you with yours, and maybe trick Skooma Cat into ruining my life slightly less. That’s about it.”  
  
Once again, Ri’saad glanced at the Orc who watched Mohamara with an unreadable expression. The elder cathay decided to press on the subject. “But… in your time? You spoke of college and degrees?”  
  
“That’s less a plan and more a societal obligation.” Mohamara sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Yagraz was lucky, she got a job she loves doing and that she gets to keep doing here. My end goal was… I guess I never had one.” He shrugged, no bitterness in his face or voice. “Just go to class, do the work so I can get a degree, and then work until I get too old or too injured to work anymore, then starve to death.”  
  
Ri’saad’s droopy face somehow found a way to become even droopier. “That… would be a miserable waste of a life, ja’khajiit.”  
  
“It’s the best I could hope for.” Mohamara shrugged once again. “I… didn’t want to tell you this, but from what I’ve heard of Elsweyr and the state of our species… this is as good as it gets. From now till my time in the Twenty-First era, it just goes downhill.”  
  
“Okay, nope.” Yagraz made her presence known, marched over and scooped up the startled tojay. “None of that. Friends don’t let friends get so depressed they bleed it into their worldview. Come on, you and I are going to have a talk.”  
  
“This one looks forward to seeing you again, ja’khajiit.” Ri’saad spoke quickly while the tojay was still in earshot. “And hopes you will be happier when it happens!”  
  
Up to Whiterun the Orc marched with a Khajiit squirming under her arm. The guards greeted her warmly and made no comment about Mohamara as he attempted to gnaw his way to freedom. Past the wood and iron gates they went, and down the main street of Whiterun’s Plains District until Yagraz turned and marched up the steps to a cottage. Presumably, this was her home ‘Breezehome’, for she had a key to the place and entered without incident.  
  
The cottage was pleasantly warm compared to the ever-present chill of Skyrim. Far at the end of the cottage was a dining table and doorway to an adjacent room while a stairway led upward. Immediately in front of the door was a firepit with a stewpot over it, and two chairs flanking a low table. Into one of these chairs, Yagraz dunked Mohamara, while she sat in the other.  
  
“‘Work until you’re too old, or too injured to work anymore, then starve to death.’” The Orc woman looked at the Khajiit disbelievingly, moving her hands about in a variety of gestures trying to convey how much she _didn’t_ understand. “ _What?_ ”  
  
Mohamara said nothing, twiddling his thumbs and kicking his feet in the too tall chair while he looked into the coals. “It’s… pretty straightforward. Not a lot of ambiguity.”  
  
“What the hell happened to your ‘become a teacher’ thing? I thought that’s what you were going to college _for_.” Yagraz got up out of her chair to pace around. She’d always needed to be mobile when she was pissed off, if she stayed in one place she’d end up punching someone.  
  
“You’re mad.”  
  
“I’m _not_ mad, I’m just confused. Come on short-stuff, you’ve always been a sourpuss but _this_?!” The Orc woman gestured toward him with a bewildered expression. “Where in the Ashpit did this come from?”  
  
Mohamara’s ears flicked back and his tail began to sway. “Look, the teacher thing… fell through. I got told early on that going for that degree would be a waste of time as I wasn’t going to get hired anywhere.”  
  
“... Because you’re a Khajiit or…?” Yagraz tried to look in Mohamara’s eyes, he could never lie to her when looking her in the eyes. So Mohamara kept his gaze fixed firmly on the coals in the fire.  
  
“Does it matter? It doesn’t really affect things _now_ \--”  
  
“When my best friend’s end goal is to _starve to death_ it affects things _plenty_!”  
  
A sudden interruption to the tense discussion came from a Redguard man stumbling into the house with a cloud of alcohol smell around him. “Oh hey,” he greeted Yagraz with a tip of his wine bottle. “Good to see you’re back.” The Redguard took a long drink of his wine while glancing around, then noticed Mohamara. “Found yourself another kid? I bet Lucy’ll be happy to have a little sister.”  
  
Yagraz let out a hiss of laughter despite the scene that had been playing out before, while Mohamara glared daggers at the Redguard man, presumably the Brenuin friend Yagraz had mentioned.  
  
“Heh, with a glare like that she’ll have no problem keeping the boys away until she’s ready for marriage.”  
  
“Would you mind if I murdered him?” Mohamara asked without taking his eyes off the drunk who had emptied his wine bottle.  
  
“Yes,” Yagraz answered. “I can’t afford a long-time babysitter who wants to be paid in gold instead of booze.”  
  
“You know what? This calls for a drink, break out the Argonian Ale!”  
  
\--  
  
‘Lucy’ was actually Lucia, a ten-year-old Imperial girl who seemed to comprehend that Mohamara wasn’t actually a kid, just short, far better than Brenuin could. Not all that surprising, given the man was absolutely shitfaced by the time Yagraz came back from letting the Companions know she was alive, with four pounds of venison purchased from the marketplace for dinner.  
  
Because neither Brenuin or Yagraz could cook venison worth a damn, Mohamara knew from experience, it fell to the shortie squad to get dinner prepared. “You put your Momma in front of a grill and give her any animal--anything the Divines put on Nirn, and she’ll make you something delicious.” Mohamara told his ‘new’ niece with authority. “But ask her to make a stew and she’ll hand you a bowl of poison.”  
  
“Brenuin’s not much better.” The brown-haired Imperial girl spent her time chopping leeks and potatoes for the stew with her new elven dagger while Mohamara carved the venison with his Nordic one. “He’s good with bread, though. I think he used to be a baker.”  
  
“Don’t you go spreading those _vicious_ , _hurtful_ lies about me, young lady,” the resident drunk pointed his bottle of ale at Lucia from across the house.  
  
“Your mother has a job, and is a respected member of the community,” Mohamara informed the Redguard man with a flat voice.  
  
“How _dare_ you say that about my mother, I swear when I--” The drunk hastily tried to stand but tripped over the bench and landed on his face. He stayed there for a second before faint snoring sounds began to drift over toward the shortie squad.  
  
“Dumbass,” Mohamara added the chunks of venison to the stew and carefully shook a small bowl’s worth of salt over the mixture. “Stew’s ready for the vegetables when you are, Lucia.”  
  
Yagraz was busy on the second floor, moving furniture around looking for something. As long as she wasn’t trying to dig deeper into Mohamara’s problems when she still had a life of her own to live, the tojay was happy. The situation was _years_ old, and there was no legal recourse to correct it in the Twenty-First Era, so why did she insist on bringing it up?  
  
“Hey, short-stuff!” The Orc woman called from the second floor. “Get your butt up here!”  
  
“It’s the room with the double-doors around the corner from the stairs,” Lucia informed Mohamara as she started to add in the vegetables. “That’s how she sounds when she has presents.”  
  
The walls were decorated with silver swords, Mohamara noticed as he went upstairs. Functional swords made out of real silver, but the reason puzzled him. Undead were so much weaker to fire than silver--why stockpile them? Perhaps she’d intended to have them all fire-enchanted by the tojay when he showed up?  
  
Yagraz’s room was an absolute mess, containers thrown open and their contents--mostly loot from previous dungeons, he guessed--spilled out. But when he entered past the door, Yagraz hastily closed the door and held up… a suitcase.  
  
Not just any suitcase, Mohamara realized. _His_ suitcase, from under his bed back home. When she handed it over to him, he almost fell over from the weight--the suitcase was physically larger than him and seemed stuffed.  
  
“What in the Indigo Room did you put in this?” Mohamara laid it out on a mostly clean part of the floor and unsealed the anchors. Inside he found what he’d expected--mostly his clothes. “I never thought I would be happy to see a pair of sweatpants in my life.”  
  
“It gets better.” Yagraz’s grin was from ear to ear as the tojay dug through layers of dusty clothes.  
  
Wrapped up in several shirts and some socks Mohamara found… two filled grand soul gems that he’d _definitely_ never seen before. The Khajiit’s eyes reflected the steady blue-white glow from the gems as he slowly looked up at Yagraz.  
  
“I’ve been dungeon diving for _years_ , short-stuff. Lots of grand-sized Draugr in that time.” She crouched down to look Mohamara in the eye, letting the glow catch on her tusks and eyes. “Now, I think we both know what enchantment you need to make out of these things.”  
  
“Red Shoes?”  
  
“Red Shoes.”  
  
\---   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you wear Red Shoes;  
> You must choose to use their spell;  
> To do nice things for all you meet;  
> And make sick people well;  
> To help the poor and fight for right;  
> For if you are hard-hearted;  
> You won't get far, till you are;  
> Right back where you started;  
> Have to give and share;  
> Spread goodness everywhere;  
> Have to love, have to care;  
> When you wear Red Shoes!


	15. Hail, Companions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Companions!

\---  
**Chapter 15: Hail, Companions**  
  
After months of improvised conditions, spending a night in a bed in a home was a pleasant reprieve. After the Winking Skeever, it did not have the same debilitating levels of comfiness, but Mohamara still found himself sleeping longer than was normal.  
  
After the morning meal was finished, Yagraz and Mohamara exited Breezehome. The Orc Companion wanted the Khajiit to meet her shield-siblings before they went up to Dragonsreach. Mohamara had elected to wear some of his clothes from home--green shorts, a white button-up shirt, his white and red coat, and newly enchanted Red Shoes. Yagraz’s armored boots did not show the enchanted red tinge as clearly as Mohamara’s, but they both still cast faint red lights on the ground as they walked.  
  
The Red Shoes enchantment had been developed in the Nineteenth Era by Doro’thei Galle, of House Sadras in Morrowind. She had pleaded with Azura, Daedric Prince of Twilight, to provide succor to those souls in need of it--or to make Doro’thei an agent of Her benevolence. Azura had responded by creating a new Daedric artifact, the Ruby Slippers. The slippers allowed Doro'thei to cross the distance between Red Mountain and Mournhold in one step, and to teleport instantly to where Azura _needed_ her to be. After a century of acting as Azura’s agent, Doro’thei discovered a way to create a lesser form of the enchantment to empower others. Azura promptly turned the Ruby Slippers into shoes of red-hot iron and compelled Doro’thei to dance herself to death.  
  
Azura was like that sometimes.  
  
But the Red Shoes enchantment proved invaluable for people such as police officers, adventurers, and philanthropists up until the late Nineteenth Era when the regulation of grand soul gems, which were required for the Red Shoes enchantment, took effect. Their ‘spell’ was that the shoes would automatically detect people in need nearby and activate--providing a potentially ludicrous boosts to speed, agility, and jump height. Doro’thei’s one oversight in the enchantment was that it provided no way to find out _whom_ was in need in the area.  
  
Which came up as the two of them passed through the marketplace. Both Mohamara and Yagraz suddenly found themselves moving at breakneck speeds despite not putting in additional effort. Neither of them adjusted well to this.  
  
Yagraz ended up running into the wall near the stairs connecting the Winds and Plains districts, leaving a sizable crack in the stones. While Mohamara had tried to jump and suddenly found himself in the air at equal height to the pinnacle of Dragonsreach.  
  
“I’m beginning to think this was an awful idea,” the cat said as gravity took over and the cat started to fall back to Whiterun. This time he had the presence of mind to scream at his impending splattering.  
This did not happen as Yagraz managed to use her own enhanced jump height to catch Mohamara and carry the both of them through the air to land in the branches of the Gildegreen tree. “Okay,” she started before spitting out a mouthful of pastel leaves. “Someone in the marketplace needs help. We’re going to have to find out who that is.” She looked down at Mohamara who was frantically clawing at his throat, then slapped him on the back.  
  
A live bird came out of the Khajiit’s mouth, freed by the blow. “Yeah.” The tojay coughed a few feathers out. “That sounds like a plan.”  
  
“Excuse me,” a yellow-armored Whiterun guard called out to them from the ground. “Could you please get out of the Gildegreen and stop jumping hundreds of feet into the air? You’re disturbing the peace.”  
  
\--  
  
It was… surprisingly difficult to find out who needed help so badly that it procced the Red Shoes enchantment. It seemed that many people in the marketplace were in need of some assistance. A fruit-selling woman was being hounded by the bard from the local tavern, whom Yagraz knocked out cold with one solid punch. A local Redguard man Yagraz knew, Amren, had gotten into a fight with his wife about retrieving his father’s sword, which Yagraz had already picked up but not known the significance of. It startled Mohamara that she knew the weapons in her house enough to immediately identify one iron sword she’d picked up months ago with minimal details.  
  
Ysolda, a Nord business partner of Ri’saad who had fawned over Mohamara’s cuteness when she first saw him, required a mammoth tusk for Ri’saad as a gift.  
  
But the person most in need of help turned out to be an associate of Yagraz, an elderly woman who was the wife of the Companion’s smith. Fralia Gray-Mane, who had a humble stall where she sold exquisite jewelry made ‘by the greatest smith in Skyrim’, was being taunted by two younger Nord men.  
  
Taunted about her allegedly recently deceased son.  
  
Yagraz wanted to beat their faces into pulp, for apparently, she knew them, but Mohamara had a better idea. With extreme care given the active enchantment, the tojay stole up to them and established a sympathetic bond with each of them on one end, then ran to a relatively nearby stall where fresh meat was being sold. The other end of the sympathetic bonds went into two pork bellies which he then bade the Bosmer attendant make bacon from.  
  
The two time-travelers watched in morbid amusement as the two Nords twitched, spasmed, contorted, and examined themselves as they felt the knives of the Bosmer cutting through skin and cutting up connective tissue for bacon. Both of them broke off tormenting Fralia, and hastily made for the temple of Kynareth. The elder of the two had to be supported by the other or he would have collapsed on the stairs.  
  
Justice would make the bacon taste all the better, so Yagraz gladly paid for it and carried the pork product off to Breezehome. Meanwhile, Mohamara met with Fralia, who watched the cat approach with some wariness.  
  
“I saw you do that magic to them,” the old Nord woman said in a whisper. “It was good of you to help an old woman. Are you another of Yagraz’s adopted children?”  
  
The tojay’s ears adjusted, unconsciously conveying confusion through body language rather than facial expression. “‘Another’? I’ve only seen Yagraz have one daughter.”  
  
“Oh, she hasn’t told you about little Sofie….” Fralia looked down the road to Breezehome, a peculiar wetness in her eye. “Yagraz brought a girl home about a year back, from Windhelm. Things were alright at first, but she caught the same rot that now eats at old Kodlak. And, well, little girls cannot endure it as long as Harbingers of the Companions.” Fralia looked away for a moment then put on a smiling face for the Khajiit. “But that girl was loved every moment she was in Whiterun.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears and whiskers drooped. He’d been giving Yagraz even more problems when she’d lost a kid already. ‘Just typical’, he thought. ‘Making her life even worse with my problems. And now I’m making it about me by realizing how much she already has to deal with.’  
  
“Oh, I didn’t mean to make you sad, young’in. Could you tell Yagraz I was wondering if we could talk later?” The old Nord hesitantly patted Mohamara on the head in between his ears. “Tell her it’s about Thorald, okay?”  
  
“No problem, ma’am.”  
  
“What’s this about Thorald?” Yagraz had already returned, likely due to the Red Shoes giving her greater speed as she drew closer to Fralia. “Did he hurt his back training with a warhammer again?”  
  
“Oh, how I _wish_ it was something as mundane as that,” Fralia shook her fists in frustration. “No, my boy went off and joined the Stormcloaks. I got a letter that he died in the recent battle up at Morthal, but….” The old woman placed a hand over her heart and looked north. “I know that isn’t true, my boy is alive, I feel it.”  
  
Yagraz elbowed Mohamara and indicated him to use some Mysticism on Fralia by waggling her fingers and sticking her tongue out at the Nord when Fralia wasn’t looking.  
  
Annoyed by the way Yagraz treated his school of magic, Mohamara nevertheless dove into the sympathetic bonds around Fralia. He saw the faces of many Nords, all with gray hair. Some images faded away until only a handful remained. Most of the bonds arched over Whiterun to indicate the people that Fralia was connected with were in town. But one bond stretched far to the north and west.  
  
The symbol of Morthal appeared, then was replaced by a sneering High Elf in a Thalmor hood, and being pulled even further northwest. A ruined castle on the northern coast of Skyrim, with a view of a haunting castle island just barely within reach.  
  
When he came out of the bonds, Yagraz had picked him up and was chatting with Fralia about how well her husband’s jewelry took to enchanting, showing the Nord woman the ring of regeneration Mohamara had made as an example.  
  
“Well,” the Nord elder said hesitantly. “It’s good to know that my Eorland’s work is even good for doing magic too, though don’t tell him that. He might retire out of spite.”  
  
“Eh.” Yagraz shrugged. “He didn’t mind much when I got my ax enchanted. Doesn’t make it cut any deeper or hurt any more than a normal ax, just collects the souls of undead and animals to sell to wizards.”  
  
“I know where Thorald is being held,” Mohamara told Yagraz. “A castle on the north coast of Haafingar, where you can see an island castle just barely.”  
  
Fralia’s eyes boggled as she looked intensely at Mohamara.  
  
“Ooh, that’s probably Northwatch.” Yagraz rubbed her chin in consideration. “A Thalmor torture facility that the rest of Skyrim isn’t supposed to know about.”  
  
Fralia’s face went pale as she turned her intense gaze on Yagraz.  
  
“Not supposed to know about as in ‘illegal’ or ‘not officially there’?”  
  
The poor Nord woman looked at each of them in turn, confused but unable to articulate a question.  
  
“Super _duper_ illegal. Me and Avulstein used to bust people out of there on the regular. They torture all kinds of people up that way: Talos worshippers, suspected Talos worshippers, some Elves that fled to Skyrim after the Thalmor took over, stuff like that.”  
  
Fralia swayed on her feet and had to lean on her stand to remain standing.  
  
“Well then we can bust in there no problem and the Thalmor can’t do _dick_ about it because what they’re doing is in violation of the White-Gold Concordat.”  
  
The smith’s wife finally decided fighting gravity was a losing proposition, and sat down behind her stand.  
  
“Oh hell yes. Come on, I’ll bring the idea up to the Companions, we’ll make a party out of it. ...Where’d Fralia go?”  
  
\--  
  
Jorrvaskr was an ancient Nord ship flipped upside down and converted into a mead hall at the edge of the Winds District. Like Dragonsreach, it had a strong network of sympathetic bonds that branched out to the whole of Skyrim. However, unlike Dragonsreach, the mead hall had seen better days--planks were missing from the roof which allowed birds to nest in the gaps.  
  
“You know I can walk on my own….” Mohamara spoke to Yagraz from her shoulder.  
  
“Yeah, but in here things tend to get rowdy fast and I’m not going to let you get buried under a pile of wrestling fools.” Yagraz’s expression went distant while she opened one set of the double doors into Jorrvaskr. “You’re not the type that likes that sorta thing.”  
  
As if to prove her point, the literal second they entered the mead hall punches started to be thrown. A Dunmer man and a Nord woman, both in light armor were fighting hand to hand and taunting each other off to one side of the mead hall.  
  
“Athis, what the shit is the matter with you?!” Yagraz became incensed by the fight and almost knocked Mohamara off her shoulder from how much force she used to throw her hands up and bring them back down. “I’ve hit you harder than that, and you’re already bleeding?”  
  
Athis, apparently the Dunmer, was indeed already bleeding from the mouth from a vicious punch in the teeth by the Nord woman. Other people in the mead hall gathered around the fight and cheered words of encouragement to the fighters. Except an old Nord dressed in dull gray armor with several pieces modeled after wolf heads--even a sizable fur skirt. His eyes were milky with partial blindness, and his face covered by a mane of a white beard.  
  
“And who is this you bring to us, Yagraz?” The Nord’s voice was world-weary in much the same way Ri’saad’s was, but with an inner weakness that made Mohamara assume the man was ill. Without prompting, the Nord reached up and began to scratch under the tojay’s chin.  
  
At first, he wanted to snap at the finger getting up in his grill, but after a second of the scratching Mohamara found himself relaxing far more than was appropriate given the situation. Tojay could only purr on the exhale, so the Khajiit was giving inconsistent indications that the scratching was appreciated.  
  
“Kodlak, don’t do that you’ll make him fall off--hey!”  
  
Mohamara had leaned a bit too far into the scratching and almost fell off Yagraz’s shoulder but the Nord--Kodlak--hastily caught Mohamara by the chest and put him back.  
  
“Apologies, shield-sister. You know how I get with cats.” Kodlak stepped away, and his ceased chin-scratching let Mohamara come back to his senses and act suitably miffed at the personal space invasion.  
  
“This is Mohamara, the guy I’ve been looking for all these years.” Yagraz poked at the cat’s face, only retracting her poking fingers when Mohamara snapped at them. “Found him while I was in Solitude.”  
  
“This is the one?” Kodlak squinted at the tojay and put his hands on his hips. “Either he is unnaturally short, or he was a babe when you first started looking.”  
  
“It’s the first one.” Mohamara volunteered with a forced smile. “Props to you for at least considering the possibility.”  
  
“Nice fangs.” Kodlak’s eyebrows rose appreciatively. “Unexpectedly large for someone so small.”  
  
“You say _one word_....” Mohamara whipped his head around to glare down at Yagraz immediately. “You laugh--you even chuckle--and I will stab you. On Malacath’s massive pecs, I swear it”  
  
Yagraz had to cover her face to keep from laughing. After a minute of doing so with Mohamara glaring at her and Kodlak looking at both of them in confusion, she uncovered her face with a neutral expression. “Okay, I’m good.”  
  
Mohamara kept up the glaring for a moment longer, then relented. His tail continued to twitch from lingering annoyance while he focused on Kodlak.  
  
All of a sudden, Yagraz picked him up and set the cat on the ground. “That’swhatshesaid.” And then bolted like her life depended on it.  
  
Mohamara drew his Nordic dagger and pursued the fleeing, cackling Orc with his tail puffed up in absolute rage.  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara never managed to catch up to Yagraz to stab her. The Orc woman had far more endurance than the Khajiit, and after he couldn’t run anymore he became an oddity to be passed around between the Companions while Yagraz chastised Athis for losing his fight so easily.  
  
There were two groups of Companions, the Circle, and the Whelps. The Whelps included Athis, his opponent Njada Stonearm, an Imperial woman named Ria who seemed to enjoy petting Mohamara, and a Nord drunk, Torvar. The Circle had four members aside from Yagraz and Kodlak. Farkas and Vilkas, twin Nords who both specialized in heavy armor and two-handed weapons, with Farkas being almost as ripped as Yagraz and Vilkas being the perfect mix of a jerk jock and a self-righteous scholar. Aela, the only other woman on the Circle was a slim Nord who wore hideously inefficient armor favored the bow. She appreciated the softness of Mohamara’s fur perhaps too much given how often her hand slipped to a dagger she kept at her waist. And lastly was Skjor, blind in one eye, bald, and a dual-wielding fighter. Skjor quickly became Mohamara’s second favorite Companion because he reminded him of an old priest Kilkreath Temple had, who tolerated exactly zero-percent of his friend’s nonsense.  
  
“Boy or not, a friend of Yagraz or not, he has no place here,” Skjor said while Ria held Mohamara captive. “At least Vignar’s minion can be useful.”  
  
“Skjor, the moment I am done teaching Athis how to take a punch for the fifteenth time,” Yagraz called from the other end of the mead hall, “I will suplex you until you lay off my best friend. On Malacath’s many abs, I swear it.”  
  
“To be honest, I don’t exactly want to be here either.” Mohamara had long learned that there was no point in fighting off warrior women who had decided they wanted to pet him because they’d just yank him back by the tail if he got away.  
  
“There is a fire in your heart, little cat,” Kodlak said as he helped Athis to a chair to rest from Yagraz’s teaching. “Perhaps you just need the right company to give it shape.”  
  
Mohamara scoffed and looked at the Dunmer, leaning over a feasting table covered in bruises and missing a couple teeth. The elf was wearing Yagraz’s regeneration ring, so his teeth would be back soon enough, but he was clearly in a lot of pain. The cat looked up at Ria who had been petting him between his ears. “Can you take me over to him? I’m a healer.”  
  
“Oh?” The Imperial woman seemed surprised but quickly complied.  
  
Once in range, Mohamara channeled bursts of Restorative energy into the Dunmer, causing him to shine from within with golden light for a moment as bruises and lost blood were remedied. “I thank you, Khajiit,” Athis said, stiff-voiced. “But you healing me just means she’ll put me back into training again sooner.”  
  
“Well,” Mohamara shrugged. “Maybe you should learn to _dodge_ then?”  
  
“See, Skjor? Yagraz brought us someone with the gift of healing.” Kodlak ambled over to the other ancient Nord. “Seems suitably useful, in my book.”  
  
Skjor was about to speak when he found himself being grappled by an Orc woman taller than he and suplexed into the ground. “You thought I wasn’t serious, Lord Baldy-bald?! People who doubt my taste in friends get suplex-noogies of _shame_!”  
  
“ _I will skin you alive, woman!_ ” Naturally, Skjor found the process of being suplexed and noogied against the stone floor of Jorrvaskr disagreeable.  
  
“Promises promises Baldy-bald!”  
  
Mohamara watched the scene play out before looking up to Ria again. “I’m okay with you continuing to pet me if you can take me up to Dragonsreach? I need to deliver a message to the Jarl.”  
  
“Ooh, sounds important.” The friendly Imperial woman smiled and trotted out of the mead hall to comply with Mohamara’s request. Guards greeted her warmly as they passed through the Winds District to the long stairs leading up to the Clouds District.  
  
Dragonsreach palace was far more approachable than the Blue Palace, there was no foyer where those who wished to see the Jarl had to wait for a summons. The Jarl of Whiterun’s home was meant to repel invaders, with huge open spaces inside and raised platforms flanking the staircase where defenders would be placed. At the top of the stairs was the throne room, where three massive tables almost completely surrounded a roaring bonfire.  
  
Balgruuf, a blond Nord man in fine clothes with a strong body that was only just beginning to show the withering of age regarded Ria and Mohamara as they approached. His housecarl, a Dunmer woman, drew steel and advanced on them as the two drew near.  
  
“What brings you before the Jarl of Whiterun, Companion?” The Dark Elf spoke with a muddled Morrowind accent like she had wandered much growing up. “Has this Khajiit stolen from you?”  
  
“Hail, housecarl,” Ria replied with a bow. “Nothing so mean-spirited today. This Khajiit says he has a letter for the Jarl, so I escorted him up to ensure nothing he didn’t own found its way into his pockets.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears flicked back as he glanced up at her. “And here I thought you found me cute,” he muttered. He cleared his throat and spoke with authority utterly undermined by how Ria held him up off the air. “I am Mohamara Ahramani, of the bard's college, and current Fool of Solitude. I bring a personal message from my Jarl, Elisif the Fair to the Jarl of Whiterun, Balgruuf the Greater.” He took the letter from inside his jacket and held it out.  
  
Balgruuf himself said nothing but arched a brow absurdly high. Meanwhile, his housecarl snatched the letter and broke it open to read the contents. Without any further words, she walked away and handed the letter and its envelope to the Jarl to read.  
  
“This is not the handwriting of her steward, Falk Firebeard, _cat_ ,” the Jarl of Whiterun spoke with a voice that carried easily through his massive hall.  
  
“Indeed, for she wrote that letter for you. Wrote it _herself._ ” Mohamara held the Jarl’s gaze for a long moment before the Nord looked back at the letter.  
  
“Someone fetch me a quill and paper. If Elisif cares so much for my advice to break tradition and write me directly, I will pay her back in kind.” Balgruuf reclined on his throne while he read the letter, growing ever more pensive while he ran over the writing. “How _is_ Elisif, Fool? She does not seem herself in this letter.”  
  
Mohamara shifted in Ria’s grip as his legs had begun to go numb from poor circulation. “She escaped an assassination attempt by someone she trusted, someone her husband trusted. Elisif is angry, with herself, with others of her court who ignored the signs of what was happening, and with the guilty party. This anger has woken her up where before she was fast asleep.”  
  
Balgruuf nodded, resolute. “The first attempt on their life always lights a fire under a Jarl or empties their throne for someone better suited. And if the fire that burns within Elisif is for her people’s happiness, I will tell her all I can on the subject.” A servant woman brought the Jarl a writing slate, some paper, and a quill resting in an inkwell to write with.  
  
“I don’t suppose you could let me down?” Mohamara looked up once again at Ria, turning on his ‘cute eyes’ to try and sway her.  
  
“I like you were you are, _cat_.” Balgruuf paused only a moment to level a guarded look at Mohamara while he wrote. “Away from my silverware.”  
  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Words that your scribe writes for you can be explained away--they simply heard you wrong. But words you write for yourself you must live with forever.


	16. So much Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Talking!

\---  
  
**Chapter 16:So Much Talking**  
  
“How in the world are you so knowledgeable about dragons, my good Khajiit?”  
  
“I had some as professors at college and attended a lecture by one. The most dangerous part was the long walk up to the mountain, really. Otherwise, they were perfectly pleasant.”  
  
“At college? Which college?”  
  
“The Jorrvaskr School of Clever Works, it isn’t going to officially open to the public for a _long_ time, though.”  
  
“Jorrvaskr… Oh! A secret society, of course! No one would suspect using the Companions’ mead hall as a name for a secret college of mages.”  
  
While Mohamara watched the excitable Nord that was Balgruuf’s court wizard, Farengar Secret-Fire write down all that Mohamara had told him about dragons and possibly sewed the seeds for his own school’s formation many Eras later. The mutton-chopped wizard had originally struck up a conversation with Mohamara while the cat waited for Balgruuf to finish writing a reply to Elisif. But in the talking, Farengar had revealed his academic study of dragons, which Mohamara had used to bring up the subject of Numinex. From there, the discussion became progressively more draconic until Mohamara was rattling off random bits of trivia for Farengar to wonder over.  
  
“I have to say, it _is_ a clever idea,” Ria commented. She still held the Khajiit aloft in Balgruuf’s throne room. “And even works in a reference to the old Nordic title for wizards.”  
  
“Yes! The Clever Men and their Clever Craft, hardly anyone who hasn’t spent time in a major learning center remember them.” The wizard looked up from his note-taking with dawning confusion. “Um, how do _you_ \--”  
  
“I have read literally every book, essay, or treatise on Ysgramor and Nord culture.” Ria’s tone was flat and her expression intense. “Literally, everything that has been published as of four months ago.”  
  
“...Well, it’s good to see that Ysgramor’s legacy of warrior-scholars has been renewed.” Farengar’s tone was of a brow-beaten bureaucrat more than a genuinely pleased scholar.  
  
“Is it rude that I’m glad that his legacy of elf genocide isn’t being renewed?” Mohamara looked at the two humans in turn. “I mean, yeah, the Thalmor can suck a mountain of dicks but having all High Elves die because of them is a bit much.”  
  
Balgruuf let out one 'ha!', and muttered ‘mountain of dicks’ to himself as he kept writing. Then he examined what he had written and sighed. A replacement sheet of paper was quickly swapped in and he started all over.  
  
“Well, anyway. I must repay you for all this dragon-lore, my new friend.” Farengar put away the journal he had wrote into and quickly made off to a side-room of Balgruuf’s hall.  
  
“...There is no secret society by that name, is there, little guy?” Ria scratched Mohamara under the chin for a moment and giggled when the tojay became limp in her arms.  
  
“No, it’s legitimately just a college. Not secret, just not open to the public. Yet.” Mohamara carefully left out that it wouldn’t be for many thousands of years. “And not my fault that he wasn’t invited.”  
  
“I figured. Given how easily he talks about things like that in front of strangers, he’s probably not the best secret keeper.”  
  
Farengar returned with a sizable stack of books. “I found plenty of spares in my library! And for a college-educated mage like yourself, these tomes should prove invaluable, but also quick to pick up. Though, be informed that they’re mostly Illusion and Alteration-based.” Farengar seemed to have no problem carrying around what easily could have been fifty pounds of books, as they caused the long table he set them on to creak ominously.  
  
“Ria, would you mind?” Mohamara pointed at the stack of books, and the Companion carried him over to them. “You’re sure I can have these, Farengar?”  
  
The wizard waved his hands magnanimously. “I give them freely, as thank you for what you shared with me.”  
  
“Alright, just wanted to be sure.” Mohamara tuned out the physical world and dove into the sympathetic bonds of the books. Words on pages bound in containers acted as the shell for containing the true treasures within Ideas, knowledge, memory. The Mystic Khajiit bound a sympathetic bond from these things to his own mind and let the contents drain from one container to another.  
  
On the outside, it looked like the cat’s eyes went white, and one by one the books disassembled into cords of white light that Mohamara devoured like spaghetti noodles. When he came back to the physical world he saw Ria, Farengar, Balgruuf, and Irileth looking at him. Their expressions were confused, horrified, bewildered and annoyed respectively.  
  
“What? Do I have something stuck in my teeth or something?”  
  
\--  
  
Mysticism was a school that wasn’t easy to comprehend from the start. Contradiction, inference, and symbolism were the key concepts that had to be learned, not how wiggle fingers plus magic word equaled fireball.  
  
The books ceased to exist because Mohamara had learned the knowledge out of them. They vanished because they’d served their purpose. Books couldn’t have physical matter because it wasn’t the books themselves that mattered: only their contents. They never mattered, so they couldn’t have matter, or they would matter.  
  
It’s why the best way to teach was through codex entries, which could be shifted between codexes with a network connection and stored on less powerful devices--such as grimoires, slates, and micro-slates. All the function of a book--to store knowledge--but reusable and without silly notions about how they mattered when they _didn’t_.  
  
Farengar did not take well to Mohamara’s lecture on the subject, still mourning the loss of the books. Ria asked the tojay how they had tasted as they walked back to Jorrvaskr with Balgruuf’s letter.  
  
“I didn’t _really_ eat them, that was your eyes trying to make sense of what I was doing,” Mohamara started but then realized it would only confuse her more. “Um. I guess they sorta tasted like that food you eat that ends with you being hungry a half-hour later?”  
  
“Oh, crackers.” Ria waved to a group of young girls who recognized her as a Companion, then started up the stairs to Jorrvaskr.  
  
“Since I’m not at risk of stealing from the Jarl anymore, can you let me down?”  
  
The Imperial woman squeezed Mohamara tighter and rubbed her cheek on the top of his head. “No. You still might steal from the Companions.”  
  
“I don’t even know _how_ to steal things….”   
  
Inside Jorrvaskr there was a meeting going on at the feasting table. Yagraz and Aela were discussing something that revealed itself to be an attack on Northwatch Keep as Ria drew closer. “Hey, short-stuff.” Yagraz had a tankard of some alcoholic drink in her hand as she greeted the returning Companion and cat. “Me and Aela were just talking about how we’re going to go kick the living annihilation shit out of the Thalmor once lunch is done. You want details?”  
  
Mohamara blinked a bit. “Wait… you’re going to do that _now_?”  
  
“Of course we’re doing that now, Thorald might end up getting his nails painted some shade of pink if we wait too long.”  
  
Meanwhile, in the dungeon of an icy castle on the northern coast of Haafingar, a Nord man chained to a wall watched a High Elf in a hooded jacket examine small jars on a table. Despite his rugged appearance and prominent beard, the Nord’s face was expertly done up with the finest makeup money could buy.  
  
“Testing beauty products on Talos worshippers has been my most profitable idea yet,” the Thalmor torturer commented with cheer.  
  
Mohamara sighed and rubbed his hand into his forehead. “I… can’t go to Haafingar so quick, Yagraz. I gotta go to Eastmarch right away.”  
  
The Orc woman scoffed and took a drink of her alcoholic beverage. “Yeah, I know. Wasn’t planning on taking you up to Northwatch. Sorry short-stuff, but it’s… well, a task for the Companions.” She tried to look cool, to play off the unavoidable diss to her friend.  
  
Said friend began to visibly droop in his ears, tail, and whiskers before he shook the reaction out. ‘You’ve occupied enough of her time,’ he told himself. ‘Let her have an adventure without having to babysit you.’  
  
“Okay, right. Ria, I’m going to go hug my best friend goodbye, you can either let me go on your own or I get myself free.” The tojay looked up at Ria with steel in his eyes and found himself set on the ground. Quickly, Mohamara made his way around the feast table to hug the massive Orc woman, who was able to crush him into her side with one arm. “Don’t die.”  
  
“Wasn’t planning on it, short-stuff. If you want to talk, you can always call me.”  
  
Mohamara had forgotten that Yagraz had her micro-slate with her, and nodded before breaking the hug and leaving Jorrvaskr. He hadn’t planned on leaving after only one day in Whiterun but realized that if he stayed too long, he’d put off doing his Lady’s work to stay with Yagraz.  
  
Meridia could possibly forgive him being afraid of Sheogorath. She definitely wouldn’t forgive shirking his duties because of comfort.  
  
With that in mind, Mohamara quickly made his way to Breezehome and packed his backpack full of essentials for the trip. Eastmarch was big and unlikely to be amicable to his searching. Mostly he packed his usual clothes, swapped out some clothes, and made sure his slate was cushioned on every side.  
  
Then, with the Spear of Bitter Mercy, the cat departed Breezehome with the intent to start on the road straight away. Instead, he walked face-first into an armored waistline. There stood Kodlak Whitemane, with a backpack of his own and holding a combat-ready skyforge steel warhammer like a walking stick. “Yagraz goes north to destroy an evil, but told me that you go east to do a great service for the people,” the elder said while the Khajiit rubbed his nose and picked himself up off the ground. “My sickness keeps me from going into glorious battle, but I am not so infirm that I cannot travel the land--if you would have a Companion with you.”  
  
“... Sure?” Mohamara shrugged. “You only made a racist remark toward me once, more than can be said of the rest of them.”  
  
“Then let us be off.”  
  
\--  
  
The road to Eastmarch took the two unlikely adventurers across the outer edge of Whiterun Hold. Roads through the center would not be paved for hundreds of years at the earliest, simply from the danger presented. On the road, there were plenty of sights to see, such as bandits foolishly trying to fight a giant, a battle between the navy-blue armored Stormcloaks and Imperial Legions out on the plains, and a jester in need of help on the road.  
  
Of the three, Kodlak and Mohamara only stopped to help the jester. The Imperial clown was so outrageously happy when the two agreed to help him fix his damaged wagon wheel, he danced throughout the repairs. Kodlak’s physical strength was sufficient to hold the cart up despite the boxed up sarcophagus inside while Mohamara used his newly absorbed apprentice-level knowledge of Alteration to repair the damaged axle and wheel.  
  
The jester, Cicero, paid them handsomely for their trouble and even offered Mohamara tips on being a Fool. “Learn to laugh even when you wish to cry, Cicero says. Then you can laugh whenever you want to, or... need to. People get so deliciously flustered when you can laugh at _anything_ they do.” The jester’s penchant for speaking in the third person in no way diminished his advice.  
  
Kodlak didn’t like Cicero at all but seemed unable or unwilling to articulate why.  
  
“We are suitably far away from others,” Kodlak observed as they passed a pair of ruined towers where bandits had set up a false toll. The Harbinger had merely given their sole guard a stern look and he backed down rather than demand money of either man or Khajiit. “Yagraz tells me you have… difficulties, young one.”  
  
Mohamara immediately put some distance between him and the almost-blind Nord on the road and flicked his ears back. “Did she now?”  
  
“Do not be afraid. I am but one man, and I am old. If you no longer wish for my company, you can simply run away and avoid this conversation.”  
  
“At least until Yagraz tries to have it with me when I get back to Whiterun.” The road started to crest, then curve downward. They were in Eastmarch at last, so Mohamara began to feel out where the beacon was. The bond was still arching high and away, so they weren’t close at all.  
  
“You cannot hide from a true friend’s concern for your wellbeing. I learned that long ago.” Kodlak did not change his course, but the road narrowed as it curved downward so Mohamara had to close the distance between them. “Yagraz tells me you have no hope for your future?”  
  
“Yeah, why do you care?”  
  
“As an old man, I am legally obligated to try and help young people who are trapped in existential despair,” Kodlak spoke like he was revealing state secrets. “Once your hair turns grey they kidnap you and make you swear on this big book of standard elderly person roles.”  
  
“Ha.” Mohamara sighed and kept his eyes on the steep slope to his left that he could slip off if he didn’t pay attention. “There’s only like… so many times you can hope that what you’re doing will pay off, then get told you were stupid to even try.”  
  
“Yes, I have seen such things happen. To my regret, I have even delivered such sentiments in my youth. Who told you these things?”  
  
“Secondary school career counselor. The guy they send you to in the big cities to find a job. Like a bunch of kids, I got told that the job I wanted would be a waste of time because I’d never actually _get_ the job.” Mohamara sighed and kicked a rock down the steepening hill that the road ran along. “So, took a different job. One I had to go to college for, get into debt, and find out that the job I’m doing isn’t going to exist in ten years time.”  
  
“Printing press?”  
  
“Something like that, yeah. And now I have a Daedra hounding my every move, looking for an opportunity to make my life miserable for amusement. So… what’s the point?”  
  
“Point?”  
  
Mohamara put his hands behind his head as he walked. “No matter what I do, there isn’t any outcome that leads me to happiness. The best I can do is vicariously live out other people’s happiness by helping them. So why would I bother having hope for my own future?”  
  
“Because without hope, nothing can change.” Kodlak stopped and leaned on his warhammer/walking stick to look down at Mohamara. “Despair consumes you now, but it will not always. If you can keep moving forward, little by little, day by day, things will improve.”  
  
“There’s no guarantee of that. Sometimes you get knocked down and you _stay_ down.”  
  
“Like me?” Kodlak spread his free arm wide. “I have the rot. Every breath is harder than the last, but still--here I am. Walking with you, seeing this beautiful country with you, and hoping that perhaps I can help you help yourself out of despair.” The two resumed their trek. An Argonian in light armor with a brandished blade came rushing at them from the trees, but Kodlak casually slapped her off the road and down the sheer drop past it. “What of your Lady? Yagraz has told me that you serve the Daedra of Life, and you will find no censure in me. But what of her? Does she offer recourse to you?”  
  
“Of course she does.” Mohamara made a note to _talk_ with Yagraz about sharing personal information like that. “The Blue Room--Where Despair is Cured.”  
  
“Would you tell me about it, lad?”  
  
Mohamara told Kodlak about one of Meridia’s Colored Rooms--Where Despair is Cured, known informally as the Blue Room. It was a part of Meridia’s dominion where mortals who died despairing--by their own hands or not, were gathered and tended to by her most benevolent lesser Daedra. The servants of the Lady would work ceaselessly to cure the departed of their despair, and then move them to a more permanent afterlife in Meridia’s Rooms.   
  
The Blue Room was described as deep as the sea, with Meridia’s light floating high above while the Daedra in her service convinced mortals to swim upward. Deep below the Blue room was the Indigo Room, Meridia’s prison, and above it was the Cyan Room, where guests to the Rooms would mingle.  
  
While Mohamara explained this to the Harbinger, the Argonian highwaywoman tried three times more to rob them, each time she grew progressively more beat up from being thrown down the cliff. After the third time, they passed her stuck in a tree upside-down.  
  
“It is good that your Daedra sees to the needs of her faithful,” Kodlak said with genuine respect. “So little is known about Meridia, I didn’t even know she accepted mortals to her realm of Oblivion after they died.”  
  
“Well--now you know.” Mohamara shrugged. “Not like it changes much.”  
  
“It changes everything.” The Nord looked down to the Khajiit. “Despair is a disease so virulent that even a Daedra must cleanse it from her followers. You create so much work for her and her minions by this path--and think how she must feel. You say that she loves you, a deep, personal love like the priests of Mara feel? Well then she must wish for you to be happy, does she not?”  
  
Mohamara considered the question. Meridia loved her faithful, but mostly left them to live their lives on their own--she assured guidance when asked for and protection. But things like success, wealth, and meaningful relationships were the domains of other gods and Daedra. “I would guess so, but she has no way of _making_ us happy.” The cat stopped to consider the question and unintentionally foiled the Argonian highwaywoman’s attempt to leap at him. She had lept from the trees, but planned her jump around Mohamara continuing to move forward--so she landed far ahead and was casually smacked off into the bushes by Kodlak. “So.. even though worshipping her and everything makes me happier, and she probably likes that, it’s still on me to make the rest of my life good. Which I _can’t_.”  
  
“Why can’t you?”  
  
Mohamara sighed and started to walk again as the highwaywoman came charging at him, causing her to stumble on the base of his spear and go careening into the side of the hill. “My… father, basically. He just shows up in my life, makes demands, makes threats, then leaves. No idea when it will happen, can’t plan around it.”  
  
“Surely it cannot be as--” Kodlak was stopped by the sudden appearance of a party noise-maker in his mouth, which he blew from trying to speak. There was a conical party hat on his head, and on Mohamara’s as music began to play from nowhere and everywhere, and colorful confetti rained down on the two of them. Behind them, the highwaywoman stumbled back onto the road and realized she was dressed like a clown. This caused her to throw her blade away and go storming off.  
  
A letter tied to a balloon drifted in front of Mohamara’s viscerally annoyed expression and opened on its own.  
  
‘Dear Son,  
  
Just wanted to let you know how happy I am to be considered the principal antagonistic force in your life and not the literal hundreds of things that could kill you at any moment on a random day. Or the people actively looking for you to torture you. Or the racist people who would be indifferent to your suffering if you asked for help. It means a lot that you consider me so much worse than any of them.  
  
Love you lots.  
  
\--Pa.’  
  
Mohamara scowled and sent the balloon drifting up to Kodlak to read as the Nord rid himself of confetti, the hat, and the noise maker. After reading, the Harbinger sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.  
  
“I don’t suppose your Daedra offers some protection from things like… this?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
The Nord nodded, resolute and popped the balloon between his hands. “Then we must do your work for her right away, and put an end to this nonsense. It will do more for your health and happiness than any words I can string together if _this_ is what you’re dealing with.”  
  
\--  
  
Relatively nearby, in a walled city built on the shores of a lake, there was a peculiar sight to see. A bizarrely dressed Khajiit, wearing one half of a ludicrously colored purple and orange suit on one arm, leg, and half his chest while the other side was bare save for threadbare brown trousers. One half of the Khajiit’s fur was well tended to, slick, shiny, and perfumed while the other was wild, mange-ridden and almost starving. The same duality applied to the creature’s eyes, for one was slitted and almost predatory in its focus, while the other was wide and showed a bit of color deep within the iris.  
  
As the strange Khajiit passed by people, they turned to stare at the odd man--surely such a loon would be best found in the Ratway, where all the town crazies lived? Then why was he out in the city with the _normal_ people?  
  
“Hold,” a purple-armored guard of the city stepped in front of the cat’s path. “What business does a cat like you have in Riften?”  
  
The Khajiit man grinned, one-half of his teeth the picture of perfect dental hygiene while the other was sufficient to give dentists nightmares. “Oh, nothing all that remarkable.” As the cat spoke, he reached up and squeezed the guard’s nose twice, producing an unnatural honking noise. “Just talking to some candidates is all.”  
  
The guard became completely disinterested with the Khajiit who continued on into the city and became fixated on his nose. Every time he squeezed it, the same unnatural honking noise occurred. He ran for help from other guards but found they only laughed at his situation.  
  
“Ooh, maybe I should pick up some cheese too. Or some of those special drinks that the Argonians here make. Pelly would love those!” The Khajiit leaned conspiratorially over to the side and whispered something to people who weren’t there. “Don’t none of you go telling my boy that I’m doing this. Not my fault his mother needs him to put her phone on the charger for her.”  
  
He considered that for a moment, then spoke with the other side of his mouth. “Well it sorta is, but he’s not going to find that out, and neither is my little woman.” He opened a pocket on his almost well-dressed side and dropped a block of cheese in to feed the tiny Imperial woman he kept in there. “And neither is my wife.”  
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be wondering why Sheogorath keeps a little woman in his pocket. It's because he enjoys wordplay too much.


	17. The Winter War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara retrieves Meridia's beacon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who else got lucky, found the water breathing enchantment earliy and grinded enchantment levels by making rings of it? Just me? Okay.

  
\---  
**Chapter 17: The Winter War**  
  
After a while in Eastmarch, Mohamara pinned down where the sympathetic bond to the beacon was pulling, far to the northeast, almost in Winterhold, and by the water. When he told Kodlak this, the Companion responded that the best way to get there would be to go towards Windhelm first. So at the fork in the road where abandoned Fort Amol stood watch over they went the northerly direction.  
  
“We must be careful on this road,” Kodlak informed the cat. “Or, at least I must be so. Gallows Rock is not far from this road, and the Silver Hand garrison it.” He looked down at the tojay with an arched brow. “Tell me, can you use that spear?”  
  
“Not very well,” Mohamara admitted with a shrug. “I mean, I can use it to fish easily because it’s so long and pronged, but it’s magic too.”  
  
“I don’t suppose Yagraz knows how to wield a spear--she has been a gap-closer as long as I’ve known her. Would you mind if we took a break and I show you how to use it in a fight?” The two of them stepped aside from the road so Kodlak could demonstrate how to hold the spear--though he said it would be more like holding a pike for someone Mohamara’s size. “Relying on any one strategy, magic or metal, is never a wise proposition. I’ve tried to teach this to the youngsters, but they have not faced the frustration of being useless in a fight enough to warrant practice.”  
  
“I imagine just healing up other people who are fighting would fall into that category too?” Mohamara tried to practice the stabbing motions Kodlak had demonstrated, but with alarmingly less force behind them.  
  
“Indeed. It would only serve to make you a target for archers, or combat mages.” However, it prompted Kodlak to rub his bearded chin in consideration. “Hmm, archery might be a good fit for you. Shortbows, clearly, or perhaps crossbows. Yes, a crossbow might just be the ticket.”  
  
Mohamara paused in practicing to squint up at the Nord. “Are you trying to rope me into being a Companion?”  
  
“Heh, the Companions do not ‘rope’ people into joining, lad.” Kodlak smiled down at Mohamara, seeming almost… jolly? “But when Yagraz brought you into our hall, she was as bright and energetic as the first day she crossed our threshold. For years, she had been languishing, but no longer. It makes me believe that her friendship with you partly inspired her to be as great a warrior--as great a woman as she is today. And, if you wish it, perhaps the Companions could do the same for you.”  
  
“... You do know I technically work for Jarl Elisif of Solitude, right? As a Fool? The jump around, make an ass out of myself to get people to laugh sorta thing, yeah?”  
  
“Lad, I’ve seen all sorts take up the crest of Wuuthrad. All your employment as a Fool does is lead me to believe you’re an honest man. How peculiar a notion, to think a Khajiit an honest man, hmm.”  
  
Mohamara sighed and started walking back to the road. “If I agree to give it a shot, will you lay off the casual racism?”  
  
“I can only promise to try.”  
  
\--  
  
“You know, as much as my doctor would probably enjoy how much walking I’ve been doing, I can’t help but wish the flying broom was invented by now.” Mohamara let his feet soak in the hot spring waters Kodlak had directed them to. There had been nowhere suitable on the side of the river they had started on to make camp, so Kodlak had directed the cat to cross and find a spot.  
  
“Then perhaps you should be the one to invent it?” Kodlak was in a different hot spring pool, separated by rocks and a tree for the sake of privacy. According to him, an ancient battle with between Tongues and dragons had left the center of Eastmarch volcanically active, supporting hundreds of small hot springs dotted around the land.  
  
“Oh no, no, no. See, the gal who does invent the broom is an Orc. And Malacath gets _mean_ when you steal the achievements of Orcs, so I’d rather not.” Mohamara emphatically shook his head even though the Companion couldn’t see. Yagraz had told him stories of the vengeance Malacath would craft on people who stole the achievements of the Orcs, the ramifications of which were allegedly visible from Nirn orbit in some cases.  
  
“But it isn’t her achievement yet, she might not even be born.”  
  
“You think _Malacath_ cares? He knows that I know that it’s an Orc achievement, so it’s fair game. I could _maybe_ sneak by with a flying carpet, but that’s pushing luck I don’t have.” Mohamara glanced across the river when a bird flew by and momentarily considered snatching it out of the air when he saw people in Hold guard armor colored deep blue with shields featuring a bear design walking down the road. “I’m guessing those are Eastmarch guards?”  
  
“My eyes are not so good for seeing great distances at sunset anymore, can you describe them for me?” Kodlak ‘hmmed’ to himself for a moment as Mohamara described them. “That _sounds_ like a Hold guard, but we’re in Eastmarch. They could potentially be Stormcloaks, I haven’t seen a Stormcloak and a Windhelm guard next to each other to know the difference.”  
  
“Imma go ask them.” Mohamara stood up and trotted off toward the river with bounding steps.  
  
“Wait, what? No!” Kodlak’s less than stellar vision did not allow him to see all of Mohamara’s journey. The old Nord lost track of the cat as he began to jump between rocks to cross the White River. The Harbinger’s mind ran through likely possible outcomes of the Khajiit’s rashness. Ulfric’s boys weren’t usually as xenophobic as their Jarl, so violence might be avoided. But in all likelihood, they would assume the cat had stolen up to try and rob them.  
  
A good learning experience, Kodlak decided as he rose from the hot spring intending to dry off then don his armor and see to the younger man’s rescue.  
  
However, Mohamara returned moments later without any signs of battle on his person. His fur, however, was a mess. “So, it turns out those were just Windhelm city guards on their way to investigate bandits trying to occupy that fort we passed. And the way to tell Stormcloaks from Windhelm guards is that Stormcloaks all use a lighter shade of blue than Windhelm.” The cat shrugged while Kodlak looked on in surprise.  
  
“They gave you no problems?”  
  
“Well they wanted to, but the lady in charge punched the one guy who thought I was a thief. Then she started petting me because apparently, I reminded her of her cat growing up.” The Khajiit stuck his tongue out and sat back down to rest his feet in the hot spring. “Being short and cute has advantages, sometimes.”  
  
“I… see.” Kodlak returned to the hot spring himself. Since no rescue was needed, he could spend a bit more time in the medicinally hot water before setting down for the night. “You had to know that was really risky.”  
  
“Everything in this country is risky Literally everything. A slaughterfish could suddenly appear in this water and eat my feet off. And no, you demented excuse for a Daedra, that wasn’t an invitation!”  
  
Kodlak chuckled to himself and relaxed. “Enjoy the warmth while you can. As we get closer to the goal you’ve put to us, this will be but a distant memory.”  
  
\--  
  
The Nord’s words proved true almost as soon as they went north of Kynesgrove. The green scenery was rapidly replaced with white and the volcanic heat with sub-arctic cold. Mohamara donned many layers of clothes and still found the cold chilling him to his bones.  
  
After one day of that, Mohamara decided that enough was enough and took out the biggest soul gem in his small stockpile--a common sized one that held the soul of a Frost Troll. Kodlak watched in wonderment as Mohamara spun the gem into a crystalline thread and wove it into his jacket. When finished, the Nordic knots weren’t nearly as dense as what the ring of regeneration or his own Red Shoes sported, but the enchantment was as strong as a common soul could produce. The windbreaker was enchanted with a warming effect that would make it as effective as a heavily padded winter coat at providing warmth, and be too warm for ice to form on.  
  
Without prompting, Mohamara used a lesser soul gem to do the same to a fur cloak Kodlak had to keep his head warm.  
  
With his ears and nose pleasantly warm despite the frigid cold that blew from the north, Kodlak began to rethink his people’s stance on magic--on enchantment, at least.  
  
Windhelm was visible in the distance after the third day’s march, and Kodlak strongly advised Mohamara against getting any closer to the city. Even when the Khajiit mentioned that he knew of a caravan that was likely to be outside, Kodlak still advised against it. “You are a servant of Elisif. I expect Ulfric’s lieutenants to know that much. The slaughter at Morthal is still fresh in the Stormcloak’s minds if a servant of their enemy were to show up on their doorstep they could easily take it as Elisif herself taunting them for their defeat.”  
  
Mohamara imagined Elisif laughing like an evil noblewoman in an Akaviri scrying orb drama while the mysterious ‘Ulfric’ wept over fallen soldiers. And with Balgruuf’s letter to Elisif on his person, it had the chance to be a public relations disaster.  
  
“Why can’t these Jarls just sort their problems out like civilized people instead of dragging thousands of stupid young folks into fighting?” Mohamara tried not to look toward Windhelm, afraid that his resolve would shake if he saw familiar-looking tents, wagons, and cat-people on the horizon.  
  
“Vignar, Skjor and I have had that talk many a night when the ale flows like water. But then, the topic of what constituted civilized becomes muddy the more you think about it.”  
  
They kept walking until they came to an obstacle: the Sea of Ghosts. Mohamara’s grip on the sympathetic bond to Meridia’s beacon led straight out from the shore northward, out onto the water.  
  
“It appears our way forward isn’t possible without a boat,” Kodlak commented. “Or that your lost item is at the bottom of the Sea, beyond our reach.”  
  
The Khajiit didn’t comment, instead, he focused on the bond they’d followed thus far. It pulled northward, and… faintly downward. When he tried to follow the bond, he only saw darkness on the other end. Either it was in a box, or it was so deep in the Sea that light didn’t reach down. There was really only one thing to do, and thankfully he had plenty of petty soul gems for the task.  
  
“What are you doing, lad?” Kodlak looked over to the Khajiit spinning multiple petty soul gems into a thread and laying out a colorful bit of cloth from his backpack.  
  
“I’m going to make me an item enchanted with water breathing so I can go looking for the beacon if it _is_ down in the water.” Right away, Mohamara began to arrange the soul-gem threads into cloth, making small patches of densely packed Nordic knots. “Sub-arctic configuration, reduced friction through the water, enhanced gripping, noise reduction….”  
  
“You are able to do all of that? I thought an item could only be enchanted once?”  
  
“Maybe for weaklings who don’t know how to overlay an enchantment without crossing the arrays, or if they’re doing that thing where you just shove the soul into the item and let the morpholith crumble. But I’m a student of Jorrvaskr, we hold ourselves to a higher standard.”  
  
The cat didn’t see it, but Kodlak faintly smiled at Mohamara’s words and sat down next to the cat to watch him work. To the Nord, it seemed like magical knitting.  
  
Mohamara shook the cloth item and let the interlocked petty arrays cool down. “This is going to be unpleasant but assuming I don’t run into a whale I should be good. Unless a whale ate it, in which case--poopie.”  
  
\--  
  
For any fish that saw him, Mohamara must have been a strange sight moving through the Sea of Ghosts--a small Khajiit in a swimsuit and jacket armed with an excessively long spear, all underwater.  
  
By far, the otters were the best part of searching the Sea in Mohamara’s view. They seemed to enjoy the new creature in the water that had no wish to eat them, and one who often moved rocks on the seabed which revealed clams. And of course, the slaughterfish were the worst part, blindly chasing after Mohamara when he entered their field of view. The Spear of Bitter Mercy made short work of them--and the kill would distract other nearby slaughterfish. But just as often he’d be surprised by a slaughterfish suddenly biting down on his tail or limbs. He lost two fingers, a toe, and the tip of his tail that way.  
  
However, the slaughterfish weren’t the most _terrifying_ part of the Sea of Ghosts. That belonged to the whales. Start with the general shape of a fish, replace the scales with a rubbery skin of white and black, make the smallest ones the size of a Nord and the biggest the size of a ship, and then make them intelligent pack hunters.  
  
When Mohamara first encountered one, it was just floating in the water behind him when he finished examining a boating wreck. After he saw it, he started to hear chirps in the water and saw dark shapes moving in the distance. The whale opened its mouth, showing off spear-like teeth and a mouth so large Mohamara could curl up inside, and moved like… it was _laughing_ at him. As he moved to go back into the wreck, it surged forward and began to easily push the cat around with its huge nose.  
  
A second, smaller, whale passed by and caught Mohamara’s tail in its jaws. The cat went stiff, to prepare for the inevitable biting, but it never came. Instead, the whale ran its jaw up and down the Khajiit’s tail like it was flossing with it.  
  
Mohamara found himself passed between multiple sub-adult whales, tossed between them like a fuzzy underwater ball by their huge flukes. The small whale that had flossed its teeth with his tail bit the Spear of Bitter Mercy just under the point and yanked it free of Mohamara’s grip and swam away.  
  
While being tossed around underwater, Mohamara focused some magic into a spell--Tongues. Once it completed, he could hear the clicks become ideas become information which his brain translated into words. The two large whales treating him as a toy found him… cute. One of them called to their mother, to ask if they could keep him as a pet.  
  
A _massive_ whale, easily the size of the Nordic wrecks that lined the seabed glided out of the dark with such grace Mohamara almost believed that it was the _light_ that moved, not her. She told them to stop playing with their food and to eat the Khajiit before their grandmother grew annoyed.  
  
‘Not food!’ Mohamara called out to them, speaking words that Tongues converted into information, and then ideas, and then clicks for the whales to parse. ‘Not! Food!’  
  
It amused the sub-adults that he could talk to them, and they left the cat be long enough that Mohamara was able to swim down and hide in a Nord wreck. ‘Go on! Swim fast, try to get away!’  
  
‘Yeah, grandmother will want us to exercise before eating!’  
  
Mohamara tried to ignore the words of the whales as he made his way through the wreck. In hindsight, making himself able to understand what the chirping meant had been an awful idea. The whales would sometimes brush the hull of the ship, causing the whole wreck to shift from their weight, and taunted Mohamara that they could just get at him by smashing in if they wanted.  
  
Mohamara didn’t stop swimming until he was in the ship’s hold, where he stopped to try and make a plan. Whales or at least the species of whales in the Skyrim side of the Sea of Ghosts acted like wolves if the natural history museum was anything to go by. Fast, would attack from multiple angles, and stronger than Mohamara even as children. Without the spear, there didn’t seem a way to make it out, all attempts would end in failure.  
  
But the alternative was to do nothing.  
  
A strong pull on the sympathetic bond to the beacon brought Mohamara out of his despair. It was close. If he could get it free of its bonds, then perhaps his Lady could help. And even if she couldn’t, it was still his duty to get the beacon somewhere that another of the faithful wouldn’t need to die to get it.  
  
With a bit of illusion magic to create a false visual indicator of the bond, Mohamara peaked out of one of the gaps in the hold to find where the beacon was. A wispy trail of white light went out to the sea floor, and into another nearby wreck--the illusion cast light enough for Mohamara to see its name: The Winter War.  
  
The cat dispelled the illusion and began to put together a plan. In the distance, he saw the smallest whale flitting about. With only a novice degree of skill with illusion, Mohamara had limited options on targets so he charged up a projectile and launched it outward. It struck the small whale and covered it with a magenta sheen. As if driven to great fury, the whale began to swim faster and snap randomly. And soon it began to come after its own kin in rage.  
  
Infighting was the perfect way to deal with a pack animal, Mohamara realized in hindsight as he escaped the hold. The sub-adults were busy trying to calm down their little sibling, and in the distance, enormous shadows moved through the water. Mohamara made it to the wreck of The Winter War just in time for a massive fully-grown whale to swipe near the hole in the hull where he had been.  
  
The Winter War was a ship in twain, it had sunk and broken in half when it hit some rocks on the ocean floor. Compared to some of the other wrecks, it seemed relatively new as mudcrabs had not yet picked every scrap of organic material off the ship. Mohamara had started in the wrong half, so he had to quickly swim between the bow and stern sections of the ship, with the whales prowling around outside.  
  
Within a chest of black iron, locked tight against mundane thieves but helpless against magical ones, Mohamara found what he’d been searching for. The beacon resembled his amulet, but far bigger. A colorless faceted crystal, roughly the size of his head, and light as a feather. When he picked it up, he’d expected… something to happen. His Lady’s voice to ring out through his head, or perhaps searing pain for not arriving quick enough for her liking. But instead, he held the beacon and nothing had changed.  
  
The Khajiit examined the beacon for damage, perhaps it was damaged in the theft. But after examining it, he developed a hypothesis. The beacon was a sort of sigil stone, a morpholith created from Oblivion matter to store tremendous volumes of energy--Meridia’s energy. And Meridia’s energy rained down on the world as sunlight.  
  
Mohamara examined the distant surface of the water, and couldn’t tell if he was under a section of solid ice or not. Was it even daylight up on the surface? Without the iron chest weighing it down, the beacon would be light enough to float to the surface, but in the process attract the whales' attention. By the time they finished playing with it, the beacon could end up legitimately damaged.  
  
The beacon had to get to the surface, and there was no way Mohamara could do that without getting grabbed by a whale. However, if he did this successfully, he could at least _maybe_ earn a place in the Violet Room--Where Lie the Martyrs.  
  
The tojay steeled himself, and swam free of the wreck, going upward as fast as he could.  
  
But no matter how fast he could swim, he was never going to go faster than a whale in the water. One of the sub-adults from earlier slammed into him, in the chest dead center, and kept on swimming. With a flick of the whale’s head, Mohamara was released from the t-bone attack sent flying upward as he was swatted by the whale’s tale.  
  
Sure enough, there was a layer of ice on the surface when Mohamara got close. The dappled light that came through the ice got dim lights from the beacon’s center to emerge, but nothing substantial. The tojay looked down to see a whale swimming at him with speed, its mouth of spear-like teeth open wide, and resigned himself to death then and there.  
  
When the whale hit him, it broke the ice behind him and sent the cat flying through the air with many shattered ribs and a partially broken back. The beacon flew free of Mohamara’s grip and caught a ray of sunlight through the clouds. While the cat landed back in the water, unconscious, the beacon hung in the air. The inner light at its center grew rapidly until the faceted orb was radiating golden light like a star on its own.  
  
A narrow beam of white-gold light burst from the beacon and pierced the ice below. Underwater, as one of the sub-adults, was about to bite into the unconscious Khajiit, the beam struck the creature. Its flesh burned away in seconds, leaving a pearly white skeleton that went to pieces without connective tissues. The beam cut through the ice and water like a cutting tool and struck every whale in the pod that had made Mohamara their prey. When it faded away, over fifty skeletons of various sizes began to settle on the seafloor.  
  
The beacon cast down a wider beam of soft gold light that searched through the water and stopped on Mohamara, and by some unknown magic drew him out of the water up to the faceted orb. Unconscious and severely injured, the Khajiit automatically reached out and held the beacon close to his torso.  
  
While he held on, the beacon examined him and found things that did not correlate to its trans-temporal records. Severe damage to the subject’s rib cage and spine--both in the form of a broken spinal column and missing vertebrae; damaged or missing digits on three out of four extremities; unaccounted for scar tissue throughout, and more importantly being sixteen thousand years out of Dragon alignment.  
  
The beacon’s programming deduced that this level of deviation was beyond its ability to repair and so pinged across the liminal barrier to its inscriber for a service request.  
  
In the Red Room--Where War is Made, a Daedric Lord of Meridia saw this ping request, checked the details and promptly spat his creatia coffee onto his secretary in surprise and fear. Hastily, he moved the request up to his supervisor and began to pray. This proved indicative of how things went for many levels of Daedric bureaucracy up until it had to transfer out to the Yellow Room--Where Monarchs Dwell.  
  
In a crystalline palace of immortal beauty, suspended on clouds the color of butter, there was a grand office. At the center of the office was the throne where She of Infinite Energies would administer her Rooms, were She present. But near the entrance was a smaller desk where the Lady’s Chamberlain saw to the Realm’s needs while Meridia was away. He sat in front of a grimoire device, typing rapidly to keep up with the transfinite amount of work that needed to be done.  
  
However, when a service request from a temporarily inactive beacon was forwarded to him, he paused this work. Had someone dared waste the Lady’s time with a _service request_? They would need to be taught proper respect later. But still, it had to be dealt with. Ah, a Champion-candidate, perhaps respect was not needed to be taught, just confidence.  
  
The chamberlain examined the details of the request and carefully removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. With one hand, he willed a micro-slate into existence and dialed the out-of-Realm line. “Hello. Yes, I’ll accept the charges. Please connect me to the Shivering Isles.”  
  
After an unreasonable amount of time on hold, the line was connected and the chamberlain braced himself for his Lady’s fury.  
  
_”Speak.”_ The deceptively calm voice of Meridia came from the micro-slate, and thunder sounded somewhere distant in the Yellow Room.  
  
“My Lady, we have located your stolen property.” The former Archmagus Shalidor put his glasses back on as he focused on the service request again. “Fourth Era, Skyrim, directly on top of the regional beacon. And rather… extensively damaged. What is your will?”  
  
_”Prepare my way to the beacon. I am going to sort this out myself.”_ The line went dead, and Shalidor found himself almost pitying the Mad God for what was about to happen.  
  
Almost.  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, this is your captain speaking. Brace for impact.


	18. Marital Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheogorath and Meridia have a friendly chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized in the writing of this that going into full detail of a properly enraged Meridia wasn't going to be appropriate for this fic's rating. So I had to tone it down severely.
> 
> Also, Meridia is 100% the type of person who would boss herself around.

 

 

  
\---  
  
**Chapter 18: Marital Problems**  
  
>Service Request Ping.  
>>To: WarOfMaceandDance.serv.  
>>From: SkyrimRegionalBeacon.obj.  
>>>Champion-candidate located. Champion-candidate status: severe damage, severe deviance from records. Damage exceeds the ability to repair. All hostiles within one mile have been eliminated, Champion-candidate is secure. Please advise.  
  
…  
  
>Service Request Reply.  
>>To: SkyrimRegionalBeacon.obj.  
>>From: MeridNunda.etada.  
>>>Sublimate primary functions in compliance with Audience protocol pending remote reactivation. Prepare for **ASSUMING DIRECT CONTROL**.  
  
The beacon had scant seconds to process the severity of the situation before its central intelligence was disabled to make more room for a fraction of Meridia’s awareness.  
  
HER arrival on Mundus would have been a doom on par with what Dagon had planned. It was why SHE did not envy Sheogorath’s unique ability to flit between realms where so many Princes did. So these beacons were created to act as specially modified sigil stones, permitting her and her minions to use the power inside to form temporary bodies. But in this case, there was no need.  
  
The beacon was but a stepping stone to her final goal. Once the fragment of HER passed through the beacon, it wove its way into the mortal that clung to it. That had been an unintentional but welcome side effect of the changes SHE made to HER followers, unconsciously clinging to the nearest object or person. In this situation, it permitted Meridia to easily possess the mortal’s form and assess the damage.  
  
As she woke the mortal’s body up, her mere presence snapped bones back into place, fused the damaged spine together, and filled the depleted blood vessels with her radiant energy. Through the beacon, she could communicate with HER and procure more data on what needed repairing.  
  
She let go of the beacon and floated by divine will to examine Skyrim and her Vessel. With the beacon’s supply of energy so low, the connection was weak at best. Even if she depleted the mortal’s own energy, it wouldn’t enrich the beacon enough to improve the connection--so she didn’t bother. Records slowly flowed into her mind from HER, and the fragment of Meridia began to grow angry.  
  
The Vessel was not a perfect match, if she stayed too long it would explode. And SHE did not want that to happen. But the regional beacon was activated again, so she could access certain functions to ensure the Vessel was repaired while she did HER will.  
  
She pulled the beacon with the Vessel down to the ice below. Its pitiful raiment provided adequate protection from frostbite at least. Then, using the beacon and the Vessel’s own energy, she called down a servant. It appeared curled up in a ball of Daedric fire and stood as the summoning concluded.  
  
The Meridian Daedric [Knight](https://vignette.wikia.nocookie.net/codegeass/images/d/d5/MVS_-_Debut_-_Startup.png/revision/latest?cb=20091118225706) was colored white and gold, like the Room from which it came. Appearing to be a humanoid figure with the stature of a Giant but with a body made of metal, with a masculine face that strongly resembled an Akaviri helmet. Two sheathed swords, each the size of a greatsword for a mortal, clung to a bulbous protrusion from its back.  
  
“This Vessel is damaged,” her voice overlayed with the Vessel’s as she spoke through it. “You are to effect repairs, then escort the Vessel and the beacon to Mount Kilkreath. Anything that threatens the Vessel is to be destroyed. While you effect repairs, you are to designate a chain of automatic summonings for your lieutenants should you fall in battle. Am I understood?”  
  
**”YES, MY LORD.”** The Knight’s response was loud, synthetic, and echoed back at them from nearby icebergs while the Daedra itself aggressively rammed its knee into the ice while kneeling.  
  
“Good. You are to tell the Vessel only what it needs to know per the Prophet Two-Eight-Eight protocol. If it becomes necessary to commune with me, I will be on the yellow line.” All at once the unnatural grace and authority that had radiated from the Vessel faded, and it fell backward without divine will holding it up.  
  
The Knight stood once the Vessel was released. With thunderous footsteps that cracked the ice, it strode forward and picked up the Khajiit Vessel. **”YOU ARE MUCH CUTER THAN PREVIOUS VESSELS.”**  
  
Once the Vessel and beacon were snatched up, the Daedric Knight lept from the ice and began to head south.  
  
\--  
  
Kodlak had grown used to waiting since the rot kept him from joining his shield-siblings in battle. It was not what he had wanted for his last year of life, but in the waiting, he found empathy for those whom he had not previously considered as suffering. Those who remained behind while their family went to battle or to war, these he understood far better. And it gave him insight into what Telma, the ancient Jorrvaskr housekeeper who had basically raised the twins, must feel when the Companions went off to battle.  
  
There was nothing Kodlak hated more than the frustration, the feeling of uselessness, and general melancholy.  
  
He also discovered what elderly people would not for many thousands of years: Attempting to interact with a magitech that was too new for them to understand produced the same spectrum of emotion.  
  
Mohamara’s slate had started up with some peculiar music, and when the Harbinger fished it out of the Khajiit’s backpack saw that apparently, Yagraz was attempting to contact them through the magic item. However, he couldn’t figure out how to make it happen. He tilted and shook the device but to no avail.  
  
Fortunately, his bestial nature let him know of the Khajiit’s return when the wind shifted. Unfortunately, it was accompanied by a faint smell of blood. Kodlak anticipated finding the cat fending off a slaughterfish, or perhaps returning with food. Instead, when he left the impromptu campsite to follow the smell of cat and blood he found something… else.  
  
A massive metal man kneeling with the Khajiit in the crook of its arm, the latter of which was being shot from several small orbs of golden-white light that rotated around him quickly. The cat was holding a faceted orb that shone from within with golden light.  
  
“Shor’s bones….” Kodlak exclaimed as he hid behind some rocks. However, the effort was wasted as the metal man’s helmeted head whipped around to glare at the Harbinger’s exact position. “Why do I keep thinking they can’t hear me when I do that?”  
  
**”WEREWOLF IDENTIFIED. BEGONE, BEAST.”**  
  
To Kodlak’s ears, the metal man’s voice burned like the words themselves were fire. Later on, he would describe it as the same feeling that came from being near Yagraz while she Shouted fire onto her foes.  
  
The Harbinger stood out from behind the rocks and took as non-threatening a stance as possible when he was in heavy armor and carried a warhammer as a walking stick. “I am that one’s traveling Companion, so I will _not_ be gone until you explain what you are doing.”  
  
**”RISK OF INFECTION EXCEEDS ACCEPTABLE LEVELS. BEGONE, BEAST.”**  
  
It enveloped Mohamara in a bubble of white-gold energy and stood. The two greatswords on its back swung of their own accord and fell into the metal man’s hands. Kodlak had never seen their make before--the weapons possessed an otherworldly beauty and were so hot that the air around them wavered like in the desert.  
  
Kodlak sighed and switched into his battle stance. “I am getting too old for this.” His grumbling done, the Harbinger of the Companions charged into battle.  
  
...Or he would have if his back had not produced a definitive _crack_ and forced the Companion to stop his charge, place one hand on his back, and hobble around bent in half from the pain.  
  
The metal man watched this and shifted its stance while the Nord hobbled in agonizing pain. Awkwardly it scratched at its helmet and shifted on its feet. **”ARE YOU OKAY?”**  
  
“I think I threw my back out. Just… just give me a bit and we can do battle.”  
  
**”I KINDA THINK THAT IF WE DO, YOU’LL JUST THROW YOUR BACK OUT AGAIN.”**  
  
“No… no, I think I know what I did wrong,” Kodlak muttered a quick prayer to Shor for strength and tried to stand up to his full height. It went about as well as could be expected.  
  
**”...I’M JUST GOING TO MANUALLY EDIT MY LISTED INFECTION RISK. WE’RE GOOD NOW. I CAN HELP WITH YOUR BACK, IF YOU’D LIKE.”**  
  
“That would be much appreciated, thank you.”  
  
\--  
  
The Blue Palace had been a place of relative peace in the days prior. A new court wizard had been appointed, the Jarl had recently accepted an injured Great War veteran into her council, and there were decidedly fewer catastrophic events plaguing the city.  
  
Until one day, when a blinding light rained down on the Palace. It was accompanied by a keening scream that drove everyone in the building to cover their ears in an attempt to escape. Windows and bottles shattered from the force of it. A localized earthquake rattled the entire end of the Solitude archway. The final straw that drove everyone from the Jarl herself to the housekeepers screaming in pain was that their eyes burst from within by gouts of fire.  
  
**”SHE-O-GO-RATH!”**  
  
Within the Blue Palace, within the mind of a madman, the Mad God watched in relative disinterest as his dear friend Pelly was running around, experiencing much the same as what those on the outside did. The Mad God’s chamberlain cleared his throat and leaned in to whisper into Sheogorath’s ear, quite calm despite blood pouring from his ears and mouth, with his eyeballs on fire.  
  
“Lady Meridia to see you, Lord Sheogorath.”  
  
“Oh, perhaps she’s come to join me on my vacation! How wonderfully intrusive of her!” The demented Daedra clapped his hands jovially, his disinterest long forgotten. “Send her in immediately.”  
  
Haskill ceased to exist, and then suddenly existed again, soaring through the air as if launched from a catapult and on fire. There stood a Colovian Imperial woman, her features seemingly carved from stone. She was bald, but light bent around her head and above her eyes to mimic hair. She wore a dress of billowing silk that changed colors whenever Sheogorath looked away, and from her back light bent around two transparent feathered wings.  
  
“Meri-pants! How good to see y--” The Mad God’s greeting was stopped short when the woman, Meridia, closed the distance between the two of them in less than a second and punched him square in the nose with such force that the Mad God broke the throne he had sat on.  
  
“Oh, Sheogorath.” Meridia’s voiced was cheerful, bright, and just a _little_ unhinged as she cracked the knuckles on her punching fist. “How good that you are unable to speak.”  
  
The Mad God gurgled wetly as his skull reformed from the pancake that Meridia had made of it.  
  
“If you _could_ speak, you might say something that would motivate me to _truly_ lose my temper. Why in such a case I might just tear your Spheres out and shove them back into you through random orifices. Wouldn’t _that_ be a sight!” Meridia clapped her hands, and the background screaming from Pelly stopped as he was made whole and unaware that anything had been wrong. It would be a minute or two before those on the outside were granted such mercy.  
  
“Oh, if it weren’t for the amount of work assuming your Realm would entail, I probably could have done it back there.” Meridia considered this while she cleared the table of food, laid down a tablecloth, and returned the feast. “But then Molag and Dagon would have likely made moves on me to assert their alleged superiority and that’s too much of a hassle. Ugh, and the post-mortem divorce proceedings.”  
  
“And here I thought,” the Mad God cackled as he sat back up, “you would be upset with me over how negligently I’ve treated our son and his welfare.”  
  
“Oh, I am.” Meridia turned her back to the Mad God and began to create a throne of her own opposite his. “But priorities have to be set, my Lord husband! We must place things in order of importance, and be objective rulers of our respective domains. But since you brought it up…”  
  
Without warning, Meridia turned and punched Sheogorath again. This time the force of her blow split the earth behind Sheogorath’s throne. When she went around the table to sit in hers, Sheogorath was sitting pretty in his fully reformed seat and waved merrily.  
  
“Tell me, are you intending to break _every_ agreement we make regarding our children?”  
  
Sheogorath waved her off and filled a cup from a pitcher of spiders for his drink. “Oh Meri-pants, don’t be all dramatic. Or do! I’m not your boss, I can’t make those decisions for you.” After his tall glass of spiders was drunk, he offered the pitcher to Meridia.  
  
She took it and poured herself a glass of the impossible.  
  
“I just couldn’t stand lookin’ down at our boy bein’ so miserable when I could do something about it!”  
  
“Yet you asked me to do exactly that after I had to clean up _your_ mess. Which required I break _my own_ rules to grant him an Audience to keep him from shutting down.” Meridia drank her glass of the impossible through a straw and glowered at Sheogorath.  
  
“I… yeah, that was my mistake. Don’t know how many times you want me to apologize for that, though. Is it one of those imaginary numbers? I just _adore_ those.” Sheogorath clapped his hands, and a wheel of cheese appeared before him.  
  
Meridia watched as Sheogorath began to violently cut the cheese many times in succession, and took a piece when it was offered to her. “We both agreed--no contact until he found a Sphere of his own, or died a mortal. I didn’t like his misery any more than you did, and yet here we are.”  
  
“But I didn’t seriously think he’d go _this long_ without one!” The Mad God looked up from his gorging on cheese. “Boy’s been in Skyrim for months now and he still hasn’t found one yet! I’m at my wit’s end here. Rather enjoyable, actually.”  
  
“Hmm. Perhaps he’s content to live and die as a mortal? Like his sister was?” While the Mad God feasted like a pig, Meridia ate her meal daintily. “How is she, by the way?”  
  
“Oh I have her painting frost onto plants and windows--she loves it!”  
  
“Yes, she was always so fond of impermanence in art.” The Lady of Infinite Energies regarded the Mad God with a neutral expression. “You know that I want you to put him back.”  
  
“And you know I’m not going to be doing that no matter how hard you punch me.” Sheogorath snapped his fingers with excitement. “Or maybe you just haven’t punched me in the right way! Quick, try again!”  
  
“Then we are at an impasse.” Meridia pointedly refused to punch the Mad God again, which made Sheogorath pout and made her smile.  
  
“Not quite! I know something that might just win you over to my side of this!” Sheo snapped his fingers and two portraits appeared before Meridia. “Take a look, what do you think?”  
  
She regarded the mortals depicted in the portraits. To a Daedra, so much more information was present than just their appearance--personality, names, history, and biological information were all present. “They’re mortals. What am I supposed to draw from this?”  
  
Sheogorath bounced in his seat and slowly began to shift into his Khajiit aspect: Sheggorath. “I overheard our boy talking about being lonely, and how those matchmakers in your temple couldn’t find him someone.”  
  
“Because _I_ told them that none of the candidates they put forth were worthy of _our_ son.”  
  
“See this is why _I_ usually handle the kids, Meri-pants.” Sheggorath ‘poo-pooed’ Meridia’s disdainful expression. “So much more entertaining to have mortals try to rise to the occasion.”  
  
“Then you shouldn’t have _tried to eat him_.”  
  
“In my defense… his arms were delicious.”  
  
Meridia promptly crossed the gap again and punched Sheggorath right in his stupid furry face.  
  
“Oof, having so much more bone in my face makes this one feel such odd things when punched.” Once his skull was back in full misalignment, the Skooma Cat spoke again. “This one went through a great many candidates and found these two. But our boy says he wants this one to consult you before deciding.”  
  
“As he should.” Meridia paused as she examined the two options presented to her. Sheggorath’s madness made for… _creative_ options. “I’m honestly surprised you limited yourself to people currently in Skyrim.”  
  
Sheggorath processed what Meridia said, and promptly slapped his forehead at the missed opportunity.  
  
“Neither of them are… deserving of what you propose.” Meridia sighed and held up one of the portraits back to the Skooma Cat. “But this one is closer to being worthy.”  
  
Sheggorath took the portrait and squealed with delight. “Now we can begin fighting over the dowry and wedding, oh this is going to be so much _fun!_ ”  
  
“Well we’re _obviously_ going to have the wedding at my sister’s temple, she would be so insulted if we took it elsewhere.”  
  
“That’s exactly _why_ we should do it somewhere else! Your sister is too passive, she hasn’t had reason to get angry in thousands of years.”  
  
“I’m not getting into a fight with Mara just because _you_ want to be contrary--” Meridia’s follow up line was cut off by a fistful of melted cheese splattering her in the face. “I’m going to be nice and give you to the count of one to start running.”  
  
\--  
  
Imagine Mohamara’s surprise at waking up. Alive. Or at having his missing digits back when he was still not over the fact that he was alive. He was wrapped up in his quilt with the beacon clutched to his chest like the Khajiit used to hold teddy bears as a child.  
  
He was also riding in the arm of a Daedric Knight, while Kodlak sat in the other. Quickly Mohamara ran through the checklist of ways to see if he was in a dream, or perhaps in some weird layer of Oblivion and had to accept that he was awake.  
  
“So, how did the people know you were not part of Dagon’s forces?” Kodlak spoke to the Knight, either not aware of Mohamara being awake or too interested in the story to care.  
  
**”THEY DID NOT, AT FIRST. BUT AFTER MY SUMMONER AND I BEGAN TO BUTCHER THE DREMORA, THEY DECIDED IT WAS A CASE OF ‘THE ENEMY OF MY ENEMY IS MY FRIEND’.”**  
  
Mohamara had to cover his ears from the sheer _volume_ of the Knight’s voice. It rattled his bones from the hearing of it, and he quickly wove an illusion around his ears to force the voice to appear quieter to him.  
  
**”I miss that summoner. He did not survive the battle, and went on to find a place in the Violet Room--Where Lie the Martyrs. It is rather like your Sovrngard, from what I’ve heard.”**  
  
“Then he is among the best company he could ask for.” Kodlak looked over at Mohamara and smiled. “As are we, the whelp wakes from well-deserved sleep.”  
  
**”I would thank you not to use derogatory terms when referring to the Vessel, please.”**  
  
Kodlak waved off the Knight and chuckled faintly at the misunderstanding. “Oh, no. Whelps are what we call new initiates in the Companions.”  
  
**”I am quite aware. It became such because Harbinger Gurlin convinced the then Circle that it would be a funny joke. The name comes from a place of mockery, even if it does not serve one now. So kindly refrain.”**  
  
Kodlak reeled back in surprise. “We... have next to nothing about Harbinger Gurlin, since the man was illiterate and kept no journals. That’s… good to know, I suppose.”  
  
Shaken from his stupor, Mohamara arranged his hands in a T after getting them free of the quilt. “Hold up. Timeout. What the shit is happening? Why am I alive?”  
  
“That is a heavy question you ask, lad. Why are any of us alive, when so many good people have died for sometimes no reason at all?”  
  
“No! Well, yes, that. But more, I was in the process of being eaten alive by whales--so _why am I alive?_ ”  
  
The Daedric Knight lifted the arm supporting Kodlak to poke at Mohamara’s chest, where the beacon lay. **”The beacon neutralizes all hostiles within one mile of your location as part of the reactivation protocol. As you are a Vessel, our Lady took possession of you and kept you alive enough for me to effect repairs.”**  
  
“Wait… Vessel? Me?” Mohamara began to process the information. Meridia, his god, had taken him as a Vessel. Joy the likes of which he hadn’t felt in years began to bubble up before it was crushed by horror. “Oh no, my body was in such terrible shape. I was missing fingers and part of my tail--I’m pretty sure my back was broken from the ice. I had to be the worst Vessel she’s ever had.” He pulled at his ears in frustration as he went over more inadequacies for being a Vessel.  
  
**”I cannot speak about that. But my orders are to escort you and the beacon to Mount Kilkreath. More than that, I am not allowed to speak about.”**  
  
“Lad, if Meridia did not find you worthy as a… Vessel, would she have bothered saving you? Or having you healed?” Kodlak reached over and patted Mohamara between the ears. “Do not be so eager to tear down your own value, or you will find others eager to do it for you.”  
  
Mohamara groaned to himself as he imagined the visceral _disdain_ Meridia had to have of him after spending any length of time in his body. Previous Vessels were always the holiest of her priests or mighty Champions. Add the fact that he was a spawn of Sheogorath and he was convinced her time within him had to be awful.  
  
“Can I go… like, a month without something monumental and terrible happening? Just one month? Please?” Mohamara buried himself in the quilt, hiding away from the world at large.  
  
“I want to say that you’re overreacting, but according to you--you just escaped being eaten alive by whales. This level of madness around you is concerning--what guardian sign are you under, boy?”  
  
“I was born under the Serpent.”  
  
And though he could not see it, Kodlak’s face lit up with realization. “Ah. That explains everything.”  
  
**”I like snakes. They enjoy cuddling.”**  
\---  
  
Is it still considered a Demiprince when two Daedric Princes are involved? Food for thought.  
  
But if you're looking for what a more perfect union of Meridia and Sheogorath looks like, just take a look at the [Queen of Chaos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s39qguXmm0I).


	19. Destroyer Devour Master

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cue the main theme!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know exactly what's going to happen when you read the chapter title, don't play games with me.

  
\---  
  
**Chapter 19: Destroyer Devour Master**  
  
“You seem particularly disgusted that Stentor was able to touch you, why is that?”  
  
Mohamara peeked his head out from the quilt he had buried himself in to examine the environment. The Knight appeared to be taking them through the mountains that separated Winterhold, Eastmarch, and the Pale. Everything was covered in snow to the point where the tojay couldn’t discern when they were in the air or not until the Knight landed on rocks.  
  
He had been telling Kodlak the story of how Yagraz and he had defeated Potema to pass the time.  
  
“Well we didn’t know what bloodline she descended from,” Mohamara explained while digging back into the warm blankets. “Some vampires, like the Volkihar, don’t need to bite you to feed on you--they can do so through touch.”  
  
“Ah, so it could have opened you up to being fed upon, perhaps even infected?” Kodlak’s fur-covered armor and enchanted cloak meant he could stand to be out in the frigid mountain air where Mohamara couldn’t.  
  
“Well, yes, that. But also because I’m blood type blue if she had fed on me things would have gotten _bad_.” Every so often Mohamara would stick the beacon out into the air to catch some sunlight and charge it up.  
  
“What is a blood type? And why is blue blood significant?”  
  
“Well my blood isn’t actually blue, so you know.” The tojay reflected on seeing his leg bleeding badly from the Forsworn bear trap not too long ago. “Blood type blue means I can only accept transfusions from other blood type blue people, but I can donate blood to anyone else and it’ll be fine. There’s other stuff, like an increased pool of magicka, a higher chance of severe mental problems, and other not really important things.”  
  
“That still doesn’t explain why vampires would desire it, lad.”  
  
Mohamara scratched his ankle though Kodlak couldn’t see, sitting in a quilt in just a swimsuit and jacket made for an itchy ride. “Well, blue type blood tastes really good to vampires. Plus it gives them all sorts of temporary powers--strength, speed, and strengthened magic. If I had fewer scruples, I could have made a mint selling vials of my blood to the black market.”  
  
“If that is the case, why have I not heard of certain blood doing this to vampires before?” Kodlak squinted at the quilt-cocoon bound Khajiit and found he couldn’t detect lies without actually seeing the person.  
  
“Well, because this is the Fourth Era is why. Blood type blue only occurs in people who witnessed the event that ended the Twentieth Era and marked the start of the Twenty-First. Had front row tickets, it was pretty sweet.” Mohamara stuck his head out of the quilt again to tap the Knight on the arm. “Don’t suppose you could hand me my backpack so I could change?”  
  
**”I would need to set one of you down to reach it, which is unsafe in the current environment.”** The Knight’s answer was warm enough that the snow began to melt around them, which in turn forced the Knight to leap to the next mountain peak early.  
  
“You and Yagraz have not commented on the division of Eras before. From history, the ones thus far have been major political or cosmic upheavals--so what happened in the Twentieth Era?” Kodlak reclined on the Knight’s arm, resting his lower back that had begun to hurt from sitting too much.  
  
“The death of Hermaeus Mora.”  
  
In no less than three Daedric realms, minor Daedra assigned to listen in on mortal words for their masters all simultaneously spat out of their creatia coffee in surprise.  
  
If Kodlak had been drinking, he would have done the same. As it was, he stared at the quilt-covered Khajiit and forced himself to awkwardly laugh. “That’s… quite a joke. Daedra can’t die.”  
  
“Of course they can if you know how.” Mohamara’s mind went back to the memory of the event. The cheering crowds as they watched the murder take place on a giant scrying orb. He remembered reserving a seat for Yagraz, only to later find out she couldn’t attend as she had been grounded. “To kill a Daedra, you must cut them off from their ability to reform in the waters of Oblivion. And to do that, you need to drag them--kicking and screaming optional--to Aetherius.”  
  
Mohamara breathed deep of the cold mountain air as he remembered the fight. “Mora and another Daedric Prince--Jyggalag, Prince of Order--clashed over the Sphere of fate at first. Mora was confident, Jyggalag had no realm of Oblivion, no armies, no power base at all to seem to be a threat. He was so confident, that he arranged a great spectacle to show his seemingly surefire victory over Jyggalag.”  
  
“But it didn’t happen that way, did it?”  
  
**”Jyggalag is one of the mightiest Daedric fighters in the Aurbis. Only Fa-Nuit-Hen is more skilled.”**  
  
Kodlak crossed his arms and closed his eyes to imagine. “Let me guess… Mora assumed he could use his raw power and some piece of lore to defeat this Jyggalag, and had the tables turned on him.”  
  
Mohamara stuck his arm out of the quilt and gave a thumbs up. “Jyggalag tore open a portal between Oblivion and Aetherius, tackled them both through, and then ate Mora alive while close to a million people watched. Jyggalag claimed Hermaeus Mora’s realm of Apocrypha, all the dead Prince’s Spheres--not just fate--and showed everyone who was watching how to kill a Daedric Prince.”  
  
“I… can’t imagine that is information that the other Princes want getting out.”  
  
“Well tough shit for them, with Martin Septim’s barrier in place none of them can send much of anything beyond their shrines without a mortal to help them.”  
  
Little did Mohamara know that all around Skyrim Daedric worshippers were being communed with and given a simple goal: Find and kill a tojay Khajiit.  
  
“... This might be a bit off topic, but how does the Fourth Era end?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh, some big fuck off volcano in Atmora erupts, melting the ice and creating an utterly massive flood.” Mohamara attempted to polish the beacon with his jacket but found that it only smudged the surface even more. “At least you Nords can resettle Atmora when it happens, hmm? Right?”  
  
Kodlak looked away, out to the mountains of the Pale, and considered the Khajiit’s words. “I’m not sure how to feel about that. Skyrim is my people’s home now. We drove an entire race to extinction to make it so. There was honor, and much glory in those wars, but also terrible, honorless killing. Do we deserve to have the land of our ancestors back?”  
  
“Wait, you did what now?” Mohamara stuck his head out of the quilt to squint at the Harbinger. “Cause if I know my ancient history right, we beastfolk were here before either elves or men, and you guys kinda killed the shit out of us for land too.”  
  
The Nord sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Yes, I… I realize that. But my people, the Nords, drove the Snow Elves to extinction to claim this country as ours.” At that moment, he looked so utterly _old_ that it struck Mohamara. “Ysgramor was a great hero and a legendary leader of the Companions. But… were I standing beside him back then, I am not certain I would join in the wholesale slaughter of women and children. It is far more death than honor would demand.”

  
“... Are you saying you regret joining the Companions?”  
  
Kodlak stifled a laugh and shook his head. “No. I could never regret what has been the best part of my life. But I do regret that there are fewer voices in Tamriel, fewer perspectives because Ysgramor was so blinded with hate.”  
  
“Well… if it’s any consolation, the Falmer eventually get over their whole ‘lurk in caves and ritualistically kill people’ thing.” The tojay shrugged and went back into his cocoon of quilt layers.  
  
“Strangely enough, it is. Augh, now I find myself wishing to be young again. Perhaps I could live long enough to _see_ these changes you speak of.” Kodlak waved the notion off. “But no. It is not for me to know what becomes of the future. I see my death coming, and refuse to succumb to the honorless quest for immortal life.”  
  
**”At least you will have an eternity in the Hunting Grounds to look forward to, Companion.”**  
  
“Oh? Are you a Hircine worshipper? I mean, I _kinda_ suspected given all the wolf iconography and how Aela was highkey thinking of skinning me, but….” Mohamara stuck his head out again and found Kodlak scowling off into the mountains. “You okay?”  
  
“I do not worship Hircine,” Kodlak ground out like his voice was a mill crushing wheat. “I have no grudge against the Huntsmaster, but his realm is not where my soul belongs.”  
  
“... Oh, you’re a lycan then? Given this is Skyrim in the Fourth Era I’m going to say… Werebear?”  
  
Kodlak looked at him, disbelieving and scoffed. “Don’t be simple. I have the beast blood in me, but it is wolf’s blood.”  
  
“Oh. Then, um. Why don’t you just get yourself cured?”  
  
“Were it so easy.....” Kodlak developed a curious look. “Yagraz is immune to the beast blood, but I assumed it was due to her strong connection to Malacath. Are you saying there’s a cure in your time for my ailment?”  
  
The cat nodded. “We both got immunized to lycanthropy when we were kids. A healer weakened some of the disease so much that our bodies could kill it, and thus learn how to kill it when its at full strength. Since I’m blood type blue, I’m a universal donor. You can just get a transfusion from me, and my antibodies should fix you right up.”  
  
Kodlak’s breathing grew unsteady as he processed what Mohamara had said. “Truly? This is not some cruel Khajiit joke to repay me for my improper comments about your race?”  
  
**”Our records do not show an immunization.”** The Knight paused and narrow beams of light came down from its eyes to look over Mohamara. **”However I am picking up lycanthropy antibodies. This will require another manual edit to infection risks.”**  
  
“Well duh, my insurance wasn’t going to cover an immunization.” Mohamara stuck his tongue out but rapidly pulled it back in after the cold started to freeze his saliva. “Eugh. So I went to Solstheim with Yagraz and had it done.” This sparked a memory in Mohamara, and he quickly took advantage of the Knight being still to fully leave his cocoon and climb up. The cold was stronger than his heat-providing jacket, so he quickly scaled the Daedra, grabbed his backpack and returned to the warm cocoon. “Which reminds me, I need to call her.”  
  
“She, uh, attempted to contact you while you were away.” Kodlak scratched one side of his face awkwardly, but with an edge of cheer. The prospect of a cure after _so long_ had him perhaps a bit too happy.  
  
“Oh, that’s understandable. You just need to tell it to answer.” Mohamara cleared his throat and addressed the slate once he retrieved it from the backpack. “Burmice, call Yagraz.”  
  
The slate lit up with the call interface and all that was left to do was wait.  
  
\--  
  
_”Everybody! Everybody wants to be a cat! **Hallelujah!** ”_  
  
The sudden eruption of a choir of Khajiit voices singing out to blaring jazz music that would not be invented for thousands of years gave Yagraz the edge she needed to break the blade lock she was engaged in with a summoned Dremora and decapitate the Daedra. The Thalmor who had summoned it shrieked in fear and tried to run.  
  
But so very few people could outrun Dragonfire, the poor High Elf never had a chance. Yagraz did a little dance to the music, singing along to ‘Everybody wants to be a cat!’ while Aela and Farkas looked on in bewilderment. Yagraz didn’t spare the time to explain, instead pulling her micro-slate from her pocket and answering with her thumb. “Short-stuff! Good to hear from you.”  
  
“Hey, giant woman,” Mohamara’s voice came from the slate as she set it to resonation setting. “How’s the rescue going?”  
  
“Pretty decent, considering its a bunch of namby-pamby Elves who run away every time there’s a decent fight.” Yagraz kept on down through the halls of Northwatch and kicked the Thalmor officer that had been burned to char by her Thu’um.  
  
“You’d think they’d learn it just makes their death hurt that much more.”  
  
Yagraz gestured to her shield-siblings who hesitantly followed behind her. “See?! I told you it wasn’t unreasonable.” She focused back on the hall ahead of her and kept talking as she walked. “I got Aela and Farkas with me, is Kodlak there?”  
  
“I can hear you, shield-sister,” Kodlak’s distant voice spoke through the micro-slate. “Good hunting to you.”  
  
“And to you, old man. Glad to hear you didn’t keel over on the road.” An Elven soldier in golden armor saw Yagraz round the corner, and turned to run but found his life ended by a skyforge steel ax in his back. “How’s the Daedra work going?”  
  
“Well, I got the beacon back.” Mohamara’s tone was of the ‘more to it but being an avoidant little ninny about it’ sort. “Thanks for spilling the secret to folks I don’t know by the way.”  
  
“Short-stuff, it ain’t a secret. Pretty much all the Circle, ‘cept me, are werewolves. You think _werewolves_ are going to turn in Daedra worshippers?”  
  
“And at what point did you _tell me_ they were werewolves?”  
  
Yagraz stopped in her ax retrieval to consider this. “Okay, I might have forgotten to mention that earlier.” The Orc woman sighed and let Aela and Farkas take on the Elves that showed up to the sounds of a sentry’s brutal murder while she leaned against a fireplace. “I keep forgetting that there’s stuff I need to tell you--I’m just… I’m so used to us knowing everything about each other.”  
  
“Hey, you still haven’t told me _who_ you went to prom with all those years ago. My money’s still on your grandpa.”  
  
“And as long as you _keep saying that_ I ain’t ever gonna tell you, fuzzbutt.”  
  
“Well, in the spirit of telling you things…. I might have come really close to being eaten alive by whales getting the beacon back.”  
  
Yagraz’s surprise was so great that she didn’t acknowledge the cathay Khajiit sneaking up on her with two blades of crystallized malachite. “Whales? What were you doing, swimming out in Eastmarch?” When there was no immediate answer Yagraz grew audibly annoyed. “I swear on Malacath’s jutting jawline that if you have _frostbite_ when I next see you I’ll--”  
  
“No no. I enchanted my swimsuit and jacket to make it safe to go diving. The beacon was in a shipwreck, I had to get it _somehow_.”  
  
“Well the sensible thing to do would have been _hire a boat_ , ya dingus.” Still, Yagraz did not acknowledge the cathay, which emboldened the assassin to approach her quicker.  
  
“With what money? I don’t exactly get a stipend as a Jarl’s Fool, you know. And… it sorta gets betterworse?”  
  
“What in the actual fuck do you mean betterworse? And what the fuck do you mean what money, did you seriously take the job _for free_? Oh, I’m going to slap the tits right off of you when I next see you next. Hold on.” Without missing a beat, Yagraz whipped her shield arm out to strike the Khajiit assassin in the face, and then deliver a brutal execution to the back of their head once they were down. “Okay, I’m back.”  
  
“Well, I sorta… was made a Vessel for my Daedra.”  
  
Yagraz blinked once, twice, and then a third time before she responded. “What? You? Scrawny, thirty-pound, can’t hold a blade from the right end you?”  
  
“Why thank you, best buddy. Yes, it is an honor to be the Vessel for my Daedra. I’m so happy you think I was worthy of this tremendous honor.”  
  
Yagraz winced at the complex tone of fake outrage masking genuine hurt. ‘Of course short-stuff wouldn’t think he deserved it, why’d you go and say it like that?’ “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just… aren’t all Meridia’s Vessels priests or warriors? You’re… you!”  
  
“Presuming to know the mind of a Daedra is dangerous, lass,” Kodlak informed her from wherever he was in relation to Mohamara.  
  
“Augh, whatever. Look, where are you guys now? Maybe we can catch a boat and meet up with you when we’re done rescuing dumbass Thorald.”  
  
“I think we’re crossing into Hjaalmarch now, that’s Solitude on the horizon.”  
  
Yagraz blinked and pinched her nose. The only way they could be clearing that much space was if Mohamara had found a way to jailbreak his Red Shoes.  
  
“Yeah, my Daedra sent me a ride to help me get the beacon back. Don’t speak, you’ll damage my slate.” Mohamara’s neutral tone became waspish instruction to whomever he was speaking with.  
  
Or that. That worked too. “Okay… look, I need to get back to killing Elves. How about we all meet up at Solitude, hmm?”  
  
“Sure, that sounds like a plan. Seeya in, what, a few hours? Maybe a day?”  
  
“Probably hours. With my Shoes, I can tow those fools back no problem.”  
  
“It’s a date! Seeya, giant woman.”  
  
“Bye, short-stuff.” With the conversation ended, Yagraz hung up and went rushing after Aela and Farkas before they killed all the Elves without her.  
  
\--  
  
It hadn’t taken much to convince the Knight that stopping by Solitude before Mount Kilkreath was a good idea, for the simple fact that the trek to the shoe of the Sea of Ghosts had consumed all of Kodlak and Mohamara’s food.  
  
The Knight couldn’t endure under the melting stare of the tojay’s ‘cute eyes’ while the cat’s stomach grumbled for food. But because there was no way to disguise the Knight’s allegiance, it was forced to remain outside the city walls while Kodlak and Mohamara went in. Of course, the Khajiit had to agree to a tracking spell from the Knight in order to accomplish this.  
  
Said tracking spell took the form of a belled collar around his neck that had him glare at every man woman and child that dared to so much as _giggle_.  
  
At least the two of them were warmly, and professionally, received at the Blue Palace. Elisif seemed ecstatic to get her reply from Balgruuf, and quickly left the court to read it alone which left Falk in charge of the remaining issues for the day.  
  
“While you were gone, the Jarl reviewed the history of Khajiit in Skyrim,” Falk told Mohamara once Elisif was out of the room. “She’s… she was moved by how patriotic you are given the history of vicious cruelty that this country, this Hold, has visited upon your people.”  
  
Mohamara stored that information away, Elisif had Nord guilt toward Khajiit, which could be exploited to help out the caravans.  
  
“In light of this, she has opened the city to the Khajiit caravans. You and yours may come and go as you wish, do business, even buy property if you so wish it.”  
  
“Oh,” Mohamara clapped his hands and feigned delight. “I’ve recently come into some money. Can I buy some property myself?”  
  
“Of course.” Falk nodded emphatically and rested his hands on his hips to appear strong. “There’s a house available not too far away, but it’s pricey.”  
  
“I’m not really interested in a property in town if that’s alright.” The cat grinned as only cats could up at the Nord who began to grow uneasy. “I’m wondering if there’s a… I think the word is ‘steading’ I can buy?”  
  
“Well, Haafingar doesn’t have the most available land--all the mountains you see. But, did you have a plot of land in mind?”  
  
Kodlak arched a brow and briefly wondered what game Mohamara was playing at.  
  
“Yes, indeed. I was wondering… could I buy the entire Volskygge Valley and Mount Kilkreath?” The tojay’s smile was the picture of innocence, which only served to set the Nords off sooner. “You see, I rather fell in love with the place while _killing the people summoning Potema._ ”  
  
Falk hastily ‘shhed’ the cat and looked around to see if any of the servants had heard. “Alright, alright fine!”  
  
“Yay!” Once more Mohamara clapped his hands. “Now we haggle for the price, yeah? Well, Volskygge Valley is of course home to a sizable Draugr crypt, and also contains this place I’ve heard rumors about. Wolfskull Cave? A really big necromantic hotspot that _I bet you don’t even have people watching_?”  
  
Falk regretted so many things in his life that had led up to him being sassed by a Khajiit half his size. “Alright. I get it. Just… hand over whatever you think the land is worth, and I’ll go work up the deed.”  
  
“Yay! A pleasure to do business with you!” Mohamara had no trouble parting with Cicero’s reward gold to pay for his considerable purchase. He continued to cat-grin as Falk stormed off and came back with a sealed leather tube in one hand less than ten minutes later.  
  
With the deed to his plot of land, Mohamara practically _skipped_ down the stairs to leave the Blue Palace while Kodlak followed behind. No one but Yagraz and him would know that he had effectively bought land worth nothing that would eventually become the site of the wealthiest suburban district in all of Skyrim.  
  
“What the shit’s got you so happy, short-stuff?”  
  
Mohamara came back to reality in time to see Yagraz, Farkas, and Aela meeting them at the gate separating the Avenues and Wells districts. The cat made a note to ask Yagraz how she had been able to force the Red Shoes enchantment to work on demand--perhaps he could make use of it.  
  
“I’m now a landowner,” he told the Orc woman and bapped her in her armored abs with the tube containing his deed. “I own the entire Volskygge Valley and Mount Kilkreath. “  
  
“Holy shit, really? I think... That makes you the owner of one-third of Haafingar.”  
  
The younger Nord Companions looked to Kodlak for confirmation, and he nodded. Farkas whistled low while Aela crossed her arms.  
  
“It’s good country. Dangerous, but good,” she told the Khajiit while her hand drifted perhaps too close to her dagger. “Don’t go ruining it by trying to make it civilized, alright?”  
  
“Um…” Whatever Mohamara was going to say to her in reply was cut off by a distant roar. Yagraz and the cat both stiffened instinctually while the Nords and people around the city seemed confused.  
  
“What was that?”  
  
**”To arms!”** Yagraz wasted no time, drawing her skyforge steel ax and running about. “The city’s about to be under attack! On the honor of the Companions, I swear that I’m not lying! **To arms!** ” To every guard whom she could see, Yagraz ran. She shouted as loud as her voice could carry. If there had been any doubt, a second, _louder_ roar sounding through the air dispelled it.  
  
Mothers went running through the streets, calling for children. Guards ran about trying to herd the civilians into the stone buildings. The alarm horns were sounded. Aela drew her Draugr bow, while the male Companions raised their weapons. Mohamara’s tracking bell began to frantically ring of its own accord.  
  
A shadow passed over them, and a primordial dread filled every mortal that looked up at the source.  
  
A winged beast, all of black, with wicked curved spines along its back. Two legs, a tail, wings, and a snake-like head. It landed on the Solitude gate with such force that the stone cracked, that the gate itself was forced into the ground and would no longer open.  
  
“What in Oblivion is that?!” The distant voice of General Tullius all but shouted from the ramparts of Castle Dour.  
  
**”Dragon!”**  
  
**_”...Bah Qo!”_** The dragon’s Thu’um Shouted a storm into existence. The sky was filled with swirling clouds, like a hurricane. From nowhere hurricane force winds picked up, and torrential rain fell down upon them.  
  
To the people of the Fourth Era, it was a cataclysm unfolding before their eyes. But for Mohamara and Yagraz it was far worse. For they knew there was only one black dragon in all the world.  
  
The World Eater.  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am saying that in the canon of this fic there is exactly one black dragon. All those other black dragons are really just dark purple. Or something.


	20. When You're Not Strong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief reminder that Yagraz and Mohamara are 100% best friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is minimal humor in this chapter. I'm going to need to inject the yucks in somewhere in the next chapter it looks like.

  
\---  
 **Chapter 20: When You're Not Strong**  
  
The World Eater reeled back, preparing to unleash a Shout upon the Wells District. Some Nords were frozen in terror at the sight of the dragon, while still more ran indoors wherever they could.  
  
 ** _”Yol…”_** The dragon’s shout was to be Fire Breath then, but he never got to the second or third words.  
  
Through the rain and the hurricane force winds a gleaming object sailed through the air and struck the World Eater from behind, kicking him off the Solitude gate with such force that he flew and broke through the Wells/Avenues gate before hitting the ground.  
  
 **”ALDUIN,”** the Daedric Knight declared, as a halo of holy light manifested behind it, and its claymores were drawn. The voice it spoke with created a shockwave of heat that turned the rain into steam for a time. **”YOU WILL LEAVE THIS PLACE, BY YOUR OWN WILL OR BY THE STRENGTH OF MY STEEL. HAVE AT THEE, FIRE DEMON!”**  
  
While the Knight fought the dragon, Yagraz shoulder-tackled the gate using her increased speed from the Red Shoes. Every time she ran back Mohamara healed her injuries so that she could do so again. After three such runs, the once mighty gates of Solitude cracked and shattered one the fourth run.  
  
“Get the citizens out of here,” she shouted to the guards as Mohamara rushed in to heal her again.  
  
“They’re safe in the buildings!” One of the guards replied. And as if fate had been waiting for an excuse, Alduin tail-smacked the Knight through three houses in the Avenues District. “Or maybe they aren’t. Move!”  
  
The Companions gathered and discussed what they should do while the Knight distracted Alduin.  
  
“A dragon, in Skyrim! If it is slain by us, our glory will be legendary.” Aela thrummed the string on her Draugr bow and watched the battle unfold.  
  
“That isn’t a dragon, that’s Alduin.” Yagraz cuffed the shorter woman in the back of the head. “Aspect of Akatosh, World Eater, and the mightiest dragon that ever was or will be.”  
  
“The Companions do not flee from battle,” Farkas commented with his usual simplicity. “But if _Alduin_ is here--doesn’t that mean the end times have come?”  
  
“No,” Kodlak spoke up and slammed the butt of his warhammer into the ground with great strength. “No, the end times are _not_ upon us.” The Harbinger hefted his weapon high and called out. “Sons and daughters of Solitude! Of Skyrim! Harken to me!”  
  
Imperial Legionnaires began to file down from Castle Dour, and the few Solitude guards not ushering people out of the gates gathered in a crowd to hear what Kodlak had to say. Meanwhile Alduin bit directly into one of the Knight’s swords as it was swung at him--the sword fractured and swole from internal pressure before exploding and sending both combatants flying to opposite ends of the Avenues District.  
  
“This is _not the end!_ I have heard tales of the future that waits for our people. The honor! The glory! From the mouths of the gods have I heard these things!” Kodlak patrolled in front of them, waving his hammer like a staff. “The world will not end today! Not tomorrow! Not _ever!_ We killed the Elves for this land! We killed the dragons for this land! Who will stand with me and kill the World Eater for this land?!”  
  
The Companions naturally roared in agreement, and the Legion joined in. The guards were less sure but drew steel to show their commitment.  
  
“That knight that grapples with the World Eater now is a gift from Meridia! Prince of Life and Light! The gods are on our side, and even a Prince of Oblivion champions our cause. Let your hearts call upon the strength of your forebears, and the blessings of the gods, to put that dragon _to the sword!_ ” Kodlak turned and pointed with his warhammer, and the motley combination of professional soldiers, city guards, and champions of valor rushed the Avenues/Wells gate to join the fight.  
  
When they were gone, and the sounds of battle echoed from the Avenues district--along with two Voices--Kodlak went to Mohamara, who had stayed behind as well. “Lad,” he whispered and knelt. “I have no illusions about the chances of survival. If possible… I would die as a man, not a beast.”  
  
“Oh… okay.” The tojay quickly rolled up his sleeve and retrieved his Nordic dagger. The quicksilver edge easily cut open his arm and produced a considerable volume of blood. Kodlak took a handful and put it to his mouth to drink. While Mohamara healed his arm, he reached out and increased the sympathetic bonds between the blood within Kodlak and the blood he had drunk. “Not the best way to do it, but it should prioritize cleaning your soul first.”  
  
“My thanks, lad. Go with the gods.” The Harbinger then stood and rushed to join the battle.  
  
Meanwhile, in the Blue Palace, in the mind of a madman, a Daedra and a mortal emperor had grown small to sit in a bowl of stew as if it were a hot spring.  
  
Meridia looked down at them with faint disgust--it was her soup they had elected to do this in. “Should we do something about the miniature Akatosh running around outside?”  
  
“Probably!” The tiny Sheogorath chimed as he adjusted the minute pieces of carrot over his eyes. “But it’s such a grand spectacle, why mess it up?”  
  
“Well, Alduin is going to get sick of playing around and blitz through those mortals and my Knight eventually.” Meridia shrugged and focused her awareness outside the madman’s mind for a bit. “I mean, considering Alduin beat up Dagon, I _guess_ he’s pretty tough? But then it’s _Dagon_. Dagon has a literal glass jaw. I could just possess our boy and sort this whole thing out.”  
  
“Oy!” Sheogorath splashed some of the broth onto Meridia’s hand to get her attention. “You got to possess him last time, it’s my turn!”  
  
“Ugh, fine. But do mind the time limit, I think the boy’s grown beyond your Chamberlain’s ability to repair.”  
  
“Oh, Meri-pants. You delightfully ignorant witch of a woman. I’ll be done in just a moment.”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara had been tending to some of the injured from the ongoing battle. He’d figured out a way to use Mysticism to improvise the Restoration Spell Grand Healing by establishing sympathetic bonds between multiple injured people and healing one of them. It was magicka-intensive, but it let him get those too injured to keep fighting out of the way and save lives.  
  
Occasionally he would see Yagraz bounding about with her Red Shoes to try and attack Alduin. But it seemed that the black dragon was invulnerable--only the Knight’s attacks did any meaningful damage.  
  
“What do you think you’re doing?”  
  
Mohamara froze as he heard _Meridia’s_ voice in his head. This proved to be a bad idea as a house nearby began to collapse after Alduin’s tail smashed through it, and the cat had to force himself to dodge out of the way. “Blessed Maria, forgive me my trespasses as I dedicate all the works in all my life to you,” he spoke to give nearby soldiers the impression he was praying.  
  
“You think you are honoring me by doing this?”  
  
The tojay’s thoughts raced as he lept from the ground onto a house roof, and then onto the city wall to better examine the fight. The Knight was out of swords, and Alduin was beating it in hand to hand. There were virtually no mortals still able to stand and fight except the Companions.  
  
“I have blessed you more than any mortal deserves, given you the tools you need to weather this storm, and this is all you think to do with it?”  
  
What? The terror of displeasing Meridia overwhelmed his fear of dying, or Yagraz dying for a moment as he frantically thought of what he could do.  
  
Then it clicked. The fear of dying. Alduin was immortal, he couldn’t imagine death, couldn’t _comprehend_ that his existence could be finite. Mohamara knew what he had to do to please Meridia.  
  
Meanwhile, in the mind of a madman, Sheogorath returned to his soup bath.  
  
“That’s it? You impersonate me and ask some questions?” Meridia stirred the soup bowl in which Sheogorath and Pelagius sat, then elected to hold the Septim Emperor under the surface with her spoon.  
  
“I did nothing of the sort, my sweet, radiant wife.” Sheogorath waved her off. “I just brought some doubts he’s been having this whole time and made it so he couldn’t ignore them.”  
  
“Hmm. I’m beginning to think our son has issues.”  
  
Back outside Mohamara bounced around and created sympathetic bonds with dying soldiers, city guards, and Solitude residents. Every time he formed a bond, he would leap over to Alduin when the dragon was distracted and connect it to him. The bonds seemed to cause him physical pain as he recoiled from the feelings of dying mortals invading his mind.  
  
 ** _”Damned mortal”,_** Alduin snarled, abandoning the crippled Daedric Knight who lay half buried under Solitude’s wall. **_”Get your filthy magic off of me, and I will make your death painless.”_**  
  
“Sure thing just hold still,” Mohamara replied as he connected a sympathetic bond to the dragon god’s tail, it linked to a Legionnaire as she took her very last breath.  
  
Alduin trumpeted in agony from the feelings he could not seem to remove. **_”This magic… this filthy mortal craft. How could you create something worse than that damned Thu’um?!”_**  
  
“You want these bonds gone, Al-Du-In?” The tojay bounced around, too fast for Alduin to snap him up, and eventually landed on the back of the dragon’s head. Though he was out of sympathetic bonds, the dragon thrashed about as if expecting another. “Then get the _fuck_ out of here!”  
  
Suddenly Yagraz lept in and bashed the side of Alduin’s head with her shield. While the dragon barely reacted, Yagraz grabbed Mohamara by the scruff on the back of his neck and lept away. “What in the hell are you doing fighting, a dragon?!” She yelled at him as she used her Red Shoes to outrun Alduin’s retaliatory fire breath.  
  
 ** _”Enough!”_** Alduin took to the sky, heaving his wings and using the storm winds he had Shouted into being to ascend quickly. Mohamara noted that there seemed to be a hint of… exhaustion in the dragon’s voice. **_”I will mercifully spare you, slaves. But Al-Du-In will return, and see you groveling for a quick death that will not be given!”_**  
  
The Knight, half buried in the rubble of Solitude’s wall, tossed the broken hilt of one of its claymores at Alduin as the dragon left. The blow caused Alduin to clip the Blue Palace’s upper floor just slightly, and flap about like an ungainly bird to resume flying.  
  
With the dragon gone, it was time to do a count of the dead and damage that had resulted. Rather unfortunately, most of the fighting had taken place in the Avenues District--where the wealthy landowners of Solitude lived. Only the buildings closest to the Blue Palace had been spared outright destruction.  
  
Yet somehow the madman who lurked in the alleyways had survived and continued to be incredibly creepy.  
  
\--  
  
“So much for being able to use the victory at Morthal as a public relations benefit,” General Tullius ground out as he examined the ruins of the Avenues District from the ramparts of Castle Dour. “Solitude isn’t going to be able to afford to repair so much of the city _and_ a war effort at the same time.”  
  
Legate Rikke stood behind him, observing the remains of the battle. Healers from the Temple of the Divines had gone out to join the Jarl’s Fool in healing the injured troops. Those that could be saved would soon be able to walk again. “The Castle still stands, and the port suffered no damage at least,” the Nord Legionnaire offered. “But with the gate destroyed, we’re basically lame deer to Ulfric’s boys. He gets a half-decent navy together, and he can take the city as it is.”  
  
“You think I don’t know that, Legate?” The General rubbed his face with both hands and wished he had a goblet of wine to take the sting off the reality of his situation. “Send a letter to the Legate we have in Markarth. Igmund’s seized all the property of the Silver-Bloods, right? Then he can afford to offer some gold to help Solitude rebuild.”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Rikke looked behind her and nodded to the General’s scribe--a sign to start writing. However, the scribe took the opportunity to shove a letter toward her with no preamble. The Legate examined the missive and saw that the wax bore the seal of the Rift’s Imperial camp. “What’s this? ...A letter for you, General. From your son.”  
  
“This is hardly the time to deal with personal issues, Legate.”  
  
“With respect, General, but we could have all easily died today if that dragon hadn’t decided to leave.” The Nord woman dared approach the General and offer the letter. “Perhaps the gods are sending you a sign?”  
  
“... You Nords and your damned superstitions.” The aging Imperial man snatched the letter from Rikke and broke it open quickly. Inside there were two letters, which surprised both the Imperial officers. The General scowled as he read the topmost briefly, then the second letter, and went back to reading the first. “My boy says he’s getting married soon. Apparently, he’s secured a considerable dowry and wants to give it to the war effort. This here’s a letter of permission to access the vault in Cyrodiil where it’s being stored.”  
  
“Every little bit helps, General.”  
  
“Hmm. I… I know this address.” The General squinted at the letter of permision to make sure his old eyes weren’t giving out on him. “This is the address to the house next to mine in Cheydinhal.”  
  
“Well, those Imperial love songs do mention the girl next door often, don’t they?”  
  
The General scowled at the Legate, whose expression held far too much mirth for his liking. “I know the man that lives there--he has no daughters. Perhaps… a niece, or a _far_ younger sister. Maybe a son? I hardly know what that boy of mine likes apart from wine and silk. Just like his mother. Point is, my neighbor’s just some old Khajiit that inherited the property from the Hero of Kvatch.”  
  
“A certainly great name to have bound to your family’s, General.”  
  
“Hmm. The letter of credit is properly notarized, so take it to a messenger bound for the Imperial City. Like you said, every little bit helps.” What the General did not mention to the Legate, and made sure would not be mentioned to anyone by folding the letter back into the envelope, was the exact sum of gold his son had somehow secured as a dowry.  
  
To spare details, the sum was about as little as the Throat of the World was short.  
  
\--  
  
“Okay so, Alduin.”  
  
“Yeah-huh.”  
  
“How the shit do we deal with him?”  
  
“I believe we need to employ violence.”  
  
Mohamara looked down at Yagraz with a disbelieving look from his position on the Daedric Knight’s shoulder. After unburying the Knight, its healing capabilities were able to bring it back to full functionality, and begin the process of helping mortals.  
  
Apparently, it liked helping mortals, Meridia had made it that way.  
  
“Hey, don’t give me that look.” The Orc woman scratched her nose as she, the Knight, the Knight-riding tojay, and the Companions made their way down the road from Solitude to Kilkreath. “That’s how the history books say the Last Dragonborn killed Alduin. Through the power of violence.”  
  
“I like this person already,” Farkas commented. “Just hit the dragon until it dies.”  
  
“And how well did that go for you, ice-brain?” Aela poked Farkas in the head right where he was bandaged. “Last I saw you in the fight, the dragon smacked you with its tail and you were out cold.”  
  
“Enough, Aela. Farkas’ insight is valid despite the events of the battle.” Kodlak walked beside them while leaning heavily on his warhammer. He’d suffered a leg injury so bad that it needed to be amputated, so he currently wore Yagraz’s ring of regeneration. “And what a battle. If I had fallen there, it would have been with no regrets.”  
  
“Okay, assuming history classes you had to have when you were, what, seven years old are in any way accurate to how it really went down….” Mohamara laid against the Knight’s head while he tried to think. “How would you even really kill him? None of us know who the Last Dragonborn _is_ , and if the theory of Alduin just being a strong dragon is true you need the Dragonborn to kill him permanently.”  
  
Yagraz coughed, and Mohamara slowly turned to look down at her. He knew that cough. That was the ‘I’m hiding something’ cough. Yagraz had _taught_ him that cough in primary school.  
  
“Do you have something you’d like to share with the class, oh best buddy who swore an oath with me never to knowingly lie to each other?”  
  
The Orc woman looked away from the cat’s accusing expression, which prompted him to crawl down the Knight until he was swinging along with the Daedra’s arm as it walked. “Okay,” she relented. “I… might have found out something about myself when we were killing Potema. After we bashed her ghost form to pieces and got to her bones, I sorta… absorbed her.”  
  
Mohamara’s glare became a visage horror. “Oh no. You’re a Dragonborn.”  
  
Yagraz nodded and said nothing.  
  
The tojay pulled on his ears as he swung with the Knight’s arm, his breathing became rapid and unsteady. “Okay, okay. Don’t panic. We can fix this, we can…. Oh, this is bad. _I need to lay down._ ” He crawled back up to the Knight’s shoulder and flopped down there while his tail thrashed.  
  
The Nords looked at each other, confused, while the tojay began to softly chant ‘shit’ to himself and Yagraz continued to say nothing.  
  
“It is a great honor to be Dragonborn,” Kodlak started. “Why does it invoke such horror in you?”  
  
Neither of the time travelers answered so the Knight looked down to address the Harbinger. **”A Dragonborn is not permitted an afterlife. When they die, their spirit is bound to their bones until another Dragonborn or a dragon absorbs their soul. When that happens, their soul is consumed to impart the skills and memories to the one who absorbs it. The person they used to be effectively no longer exists.”**  
  
Kodlak’s expression shifted to mirror the horror that had Mohamara had just expressed as he hobbled over to Yagraz. “Lass, I--”  
  
Yagraz pushed the hand Kodlak reached out to her with aside and thrust her jaw forward to brandish her tusks. “I know. A lot like the raw deal you got, huh? Yeah, I’m pissed about it--was really looking forward to the whole Ashpit thing.”  
  
“Okay!” Mohamara sat up and clapped his hands. “I know what to do. Akatosh has the power to turn people who aren’t Dragonborn into Dragonborn. We just need to find out how to do the opposite.” His confidence wilted over the course of a few seconds, however, and he slumped back onto the Knight’s shoulder. “But to do that we need something tied to Akatosh’s power that I can look at--and even then it’ll take years to figure out.”  
  
“Short-stuff, don’t get all messed up about it.” Yagraz shrugged even though Mohamara couldn’t see it. “Long as Alduin’s around, me being Dragonborn is still… useful, I guess. Heck, maybe I can piss Akatosh off enough that he doesn’t want me in his dragon club anymore.”  
  
 **”If that is your goal, I suggest emulating the deeds of Pelinal Whitestrake.”**  
  
\--  
  
At Mount Kilkreath, the beacon was returned and the Daedric Knight returned to the Colored Rooms. Once in place, the beacon began to charge in earnest. But the sun was going down by then, so it was decided to make camp on the platform around Meridia’s statue. With the beacon floating above, drawing on the Temple’s stored reserves to rapidly charge itself, it would only be an evening before the faithful across Skyrim had their connections to Meridia restored.  
  
But Mohamara only sort of cared for what the other Meridians in Skyrim were going to do with their renewed connection. He laid his bedroll next to Yagraz, who leaned on Meridia’s stone wings while she kept watch.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he told her in a hushed tone so that the Nords could hear, but realize they weren’t supposed to comment. Werewolf ears were allegedly good enough to hear mice moving through the grass.  
  
“It ain’t your fault.” Yagraz’s tone was of defeat, like when she had spoken about fighting Stentor. But this time, there was no easy way to shake off the weight. “I’d have still been a Dragonborn even if we stayed home. It just… woulda been a nastier surprise if I up and died to some punk with a blade.”  
  
The tojay scooted closer to her, and Yagraz lifted her arm so he could get into the hugging position. “I’m not apologizing because it’s my fault. I’m sorry because… I don’t know any Orcs who deserve to be in Malacath’s feasting halls more than you. I’m sorry because I… don’t know if I’ll be able to fix this before either of us dies. And I’m sorry you won’t get to see your mom again.”  
  
Yagraz brought her arm down on the tojay’s back and hugged him so hard his back popped a little. “Yeah… yeah, I am too.”  
  
Mohamara knew the tone with which she spoke. It was a tone of constrained emotion, forced back by willpower to remain strong. He didn’t know if Malacath disapproved of open grieving, but in Dushnikh Yal it was understood that the strong shed no tears, for to do so was to admit inner weakness. Perhaps it had emerged from how often the neighborhood lost people to Vigilants of Stendarr, perhaps it was a relic of the times when every moment of life had to be fought and bled for. Either way, Mohamara knew what Yagraz wanted but was unable to ask for.  
  
He dove into the sympathetic bonds and connected himself to her sorrow. Just like when they were teenagers, Mohamara felt overwhelmed by foreign emotion--Yagraz’s. The pain and grief were so much that he couldn’t help but start quietly crying into the Orc woman’s flank.  
  
Since Yagraz wasn’t allowed to cry, by Malacath or by the laws of her clan, Mohamara cried on her behalf. While this happened, Yagraz patted the tojay on the back to let him know she appreciated it.  
  
‘May our two faiths safeguard each other. In joy, and in sorrow. In triumph, and in defeat. May we find in each other an ally to watch our back, and a shoulder to lean on. Let us never be afraid to ask for help from each other, let us keep no secrets from each other, and let a falsehood never be spoken between us. In the sight of Meridia and Malacath: May this oath bind us from this day, until our last day.’ --Excerpt from the Kilkreath Compact, Year 19E 1555.  
  
\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering why the Meridians didn't make a deal like this with Sheogorath's faith, it's because he doesn't actually have an organized religion. He mostly lurks on the modern Tamriel versions of Reddit and Tumblr and passively absorbs the crazy.


	21. Meridia's Pest Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meridia cleans up the mess that is her temple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meridia is either the best or the worst at cleaning house.

  
\---  
**Chapter 21: Meridia's Pest Control**  
  
When Farkas woke to take his turn on the watch, he found Aela and Kodlak talking. Must have been safe thus far, if they were content to distract themselves with words.  
  
“But the power, that little bit of extra speed in your reflexes….” Aela spoke to Kodlak, both seated on the edge of the winged woman’s platform. “It’s saved your life more than once, I know from Skjor, and the fights I have had at your side.”  
  
“You’re of course right, sister.” Kodlak looked up at the full moons while Farkas listened. “But I have lived as both a man and a beast. I will not begrudge you for your preference, but in my last days I wish to be a man. In a way, the change has been good for me.” The old man flexed his arms, and the muscles underneath strained the wolf armor he wore. “Without the tension in my muscles at all times, I was able to fight like I did before the rot. Even if it means the rot claims me sooner, it was worth it to be able to be a Companion one last time.”  
  
“You’re still a Companion, don’t say such things, old man.”  
  
The wind shifted, and Farkas realized the cause of their talks from the scent he picked up. It motivated him to speak. “You aren’t a werewolf anymore.”  
  
Kodlak forced a laugh and hobbled to his feet. His leg was almost fully grown back--that magic ring Yagraz had given him was powerful stuff. “Aye. The newest whelp provided me a cure.” He indicated the small cat that was curled up next to Yagraz at the base of the statue. “Which reminds me, Aela, have you any experience with crossbows?”  
  
The redheaded Nord woman scoffed. “Of course I have. Shorter range, slower to shoot, but they hit hard as a master archer's arrow. Why?”  
  
“Because I think that would be the only weapon someone as… diminutive as he can wield.”  
  
“He seems decently smart to me,” Farkas commented. “Didn’t steal from us. But if you say he’s dim….”  
  
Aela scoffed. “He means short, ice-brain. If you want me to teach the cat how to shoot, fine. But I don’t see the warrior’s heart in him. A mage’s mind, definitely, and a healer’s hands. But no call to battle.”  
  
Farkas pondered these things without changing his facial expressions--he had learned to do it so well that even Vilkas couldn’t tell when it happened anymore.  
  
“Then what do you call leaping onto the World Eater, hmm? What do you call healing people in the thick of battle?”  
  
“Stupidity is what I’d call it.” Aela frowned while Kodlak hobbled away to his cot. “Fighting a dragon is a warrior’s duty, not some milk-drinking cat wizard’s.”  
  
“Not all warriors fight with steel.” Farkas quoted what he had heard his father, Jergen, say about mages and scouts in the Legion. “We used to not take elves, now we do. Why not mages?”  
  
“The boy isn’t even a real mage.” Kodlak’s armor scraped on the stone he had made his sleeping spot next to. A wall at his back, to worry less about ambushes. “I watched him spin soul gems into a thread and knit enchantments into a dainty little cloth thing. That and healing are all I know of his magic.”  
  
Aela waved Farkas off when he approached the edge to sit beside her. “Go back to sleep, shield-brother. I’m too worked up to go back to sleep for a while yet.”  
  
Farkas knew better than to talk back to Aela when she wanted to be alone, so returned to his bedroll. Fortunately, it was still warm from when he had left. Once he laid down, looking up at the stars, an idea struck him that he couldn’t help but speak. “...Do you think it’s possible to knit a bolt of lightning?”  
  
“Well, the gods have to do it _somehow_. Might as well be knitting.”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara was woken up by an eagle swooping down and trying to carry him away. Again. Unfortunately for the eagle, it didn’t account for the ability of Mohamara to reach around, grab it, and bite it in the neck.  
  
It amused Aela to no end when the tojay returned to camp with a dead eagle in his mouth and spat it out to start plucking feathers. “What the fuck is up with eagles here?” He asked her in between extracting feathers as Yagraz had shown him.  
  
“That’s a black eagle,” the Companion archer answered. “They hunt goats, pigs, and sometimes children. Snatch them up and drop them then feast on the corpses. It’s why people don’t usually live in these mountains.”  
  
Mohamara paused and looked southward before turning back to Aela. “Does Dragon Bridge put up with this too?”  
  
Aela nodded. “They have a storied tradition of archery for exactly that reason. I’m told that every child past their tenth year is skilled enough with a bow to take down any black eagle mid-swoop.” She chuckled a bit and looked southward to the distant bridge. “Tell me, boy. Do you want to be a Companion?”  
  
The tojay shrugged and took his knife to cut open the eagle’s chest. “I don’t know. Yagraz would be happy if I did, and Kodlak tried to sell me on the idea but… right now I think I should stay here, in Haafingar. Elisif is going to need someone to make her laugh after what happened.”  
  
Aela turned to look at him with an arched brow. “It doesn’t bother you? To debase yourself like that?”  
  
Mohamara met her eyes, defiant. “I signed up for the job a Fool. It comes with the territory.”  
  
“Hmm. Then perhaps Kodlak is wrong about you. A Companion should not be content to be laughed at.”  
  
“Aren’t you guys all about honor? What honor do I lose by making people laugh when they need it? Is it dishonorable to bring people happiness?”  
  
Aela’s expression became steel, and Mohamara saw a yellow tinge creep into her eyes. “It is dishonorable to be mocked and do nothing about it. It is dishonorable to _want_ to be mocked, as it diminishes the honor of all those who would stand with you.”  
  
The cat didn’t look away from her but shrugged. “That sounds like your opinion, and less like codified rules. Do you think less of Yagraz for having me as her friend, then?”  
  
“My thoughts on my shield-siblings are my own.”  
  
“That’s a way of saying yes while being too _afraid_ to admit it.” Mohamara easily lept seven feet into the air as Aela snarled and crossed the gap between them in a flash. Werewolf speed was not to be fucked with. “Ooh,” the tojay commented as he landed and immediately jumped again to avoid any grabbing attempts from the Companion. “Consider that nerve touched.”  
  
“You don’t want to test my patience, _cat_.” Aela went for neither of her weapons and made no moves to grab the tojay as he bounded around the temple roof.  
  
“Then maybe you shouldn’t start conversations expecting others to handle your delicate sensibilities. You know what also diminishes the honor of all who stand with you?” The cat pulled down on one of his eyelids and stuck his tongue out at the Companion. “Being so fragile that they can’t have opinions different than yours.”  
  
The Companion snarled, and her eyes went almost entirely yellow while her canines visibly grew in size. Mohamara realized that he might have pushed the issue too far, and was about to flee before the impending werewolf transformation started.  
  
But it became unnecessary. On his next jump upward, Mohamara found himself going far higher, much faster than he had done previously. For a moment, he thought the Red Shoes enchantment had activated but he kept going hundreds of feet into the air--well beyond what the enchantment should have been capable of at max power.  
  
Then, when he could see all the way to Whiterun Hold, he stopped and was suspended in the air. Light gathered into a central point not far away and exploded into a winged figure vaguely resembling a woman made of white light.  
  
Meridia.  
  
The force holding Mohamara had seized him somewhere around his chest, so he flailed about in an attempt to get into a position of supplication. It didn’t go well, with the cat ending up flipping over multiple times as Meridia approached and overall just screwing up his physical orientation.  
  
When she finally arrived, he had managed something close to the position of supplication… at about ninety degrees off where it should have been. “You, mortal.” Her voice echoed far in the thin air so high up. “You have restored to me my beacon, and permitted my splendor to return to Skyrim. For your efforts, you may speak to me.”  
  
“All that I do, I do to spread the word of your benevolence through the world,” the tojay replied, with his eyes blocked by the backs of his hands. Technically the pose of supplication was just a kowtow, but there was some hidden meaning behind it--perhaps it was bound to a specific set of ideas through sympathetic bonds that only Meridia could pick up on.  
  
“As you should, good and faithful servant.”  
  
Inside his mind, where it was appropriate to have such thoughts, Mohmara squealed to himself from the joy of Meridia’s praise.  
  
The light from Meridia’s seeming shifted as she circled around the mortal. “Where is your amulet, mortal? I _distinctly_ recall that all my servants should have one that I might know the strength of your love for me.”  
  
All the joy that he had felt before turned to ash and dread. “It, uh… was stolen, my Lady.”  
  
_”By whom?”_  
  
“An Orc. I never knew his name. He stole it shortly after I… uh, appeared in this time?” He didn’t dare bring up Sheogorath to Meridia yet. More than likely she had known from the moment he was brought to her temple as a baby.  
  
“I see.”  
  
Those two words cut Mohamara to the bone, he imagined the disappointment Meridia must have had, that one of her faithful couldn’t fight off a drunk robber. His ears went flat against his head and his tail went underneath him. “If-if it pleases you, I can perhaps make another--”  
  
“It would not please me, no. The amulet is not merely a magical necklace, it is a morpholith mined and polished from my Realm. How arrogant of you, to think you could replicate _my_ work.”  
  
The situation was growing increasingly worse, Mohamara realized. Meridia was going to be upset with him, and what way she would choose to express that feeling was up in the air.  
  
“But even without the amulet, I can see your heart. You cower at the thought of displeasing me--good. Too many of my servants fail to realize the severity of their errors. Such as _this_.”  
  
Mohamara felt Meridia seize his leg and roll up his pants leg, and then jab an insubstantial finger into the scars along his shin.  
  
“I am particular with my words, mortal. So when I order my Vessels to be repaired, I expect to come back to find them in exactly the condition I expect of them. Which is why I am _utterly enraged_ when my orders are ignored like this.” As she spoke, she squeezed down on Mohamara’s ankle like he was a stress ball.  
  
Meanwhile, in the Colored Rooms, a general broadcast was sent out to all Meridia’s servants from her chamberlain. “Would the Knight designated L4NC-3 please report to the throne room. _Now._ ”  
  
The specific Knight was in the middle of its lunch break, and obediently got up while all the other Knights pointed, ‘ooh’d’, and one sang the ‘someone’s in trouble’ song.  
  
Mohamara kept his mouth shut as Meridia used his leg like a stress relief ball. Fortunately, she let go before breaking any of his bones.  
  
“But this is not your fault. You have served admirably. I am… pleased, with you.”  
  
“Before… before you commit to that, my Lady.” Mohamara knew, he _knew_ that what he was about to do was stupid beyond all forms of reason. But he couldn’t do otherwise. He couldn’t lie, even by omission, to his Lady. “I… did not go after the beacon right away when I learned where it was. I stayed in Solitude, and fulfilled the orders of Sheogorath first because I thought… I thought….”  
  
  
“You _thought_ that Sheogorath was like me. That his orders were to be obeyed and made a priority on pain of death. Is that about right?”  
  
Mohamara nodded and was ever so slightly grateful that he couldn’t see whatever look of displeasure Meridia was leveling at him.  
  
“I had _thought_ to make you my Champion, to make your voice equal to mine. But perhaps I should bless some other mortal, one who is not so _foolish_.” The light of Meridia’s presence shifted again, growing more distant. “Tell me--why do you confess this? Sheogorath would have never spoken of it, and you could have been greatly rewarded had you stayed _silent_.”  
  
“Because I love you, and you love me. And keeping a secret from you would have eaten at that love with fear of it being discovered.” The tojay braced himself for the beacon firing off a beam of light to murder him then and there, or perhaps for Meridia to shuffle his bones around, or turn him into a worm.  
  
Meanwhile, in the mind of a madman, the gracious host looked up from reading a letter from hundreds of years ago to the lady his friend had invited in. “What’s got you grinning like a fool?”  
  
“Shut up, mortal,” Meridia replied with a toothy grin from ear to ear.  
  
Back to the scene far above Meridia’s temple, the Daedra did not speak for a long while. “I see. Since you are not suited to being my Champion, you will serve me in a different way. There is a profane darkness lurking in my temple. If I had a Champion, I would see it cleansed. But since all I have is a Vessel, I will use you to… exterminate the infestation myself. Inform the mortals skittering about my roof that they will need to hurry and get as far away as possible.”  
  
“Yes, my Lady.” Mohamara nodded and began to sink back to Nirn automatically.  
  
\--  
  
Yagraz woke up to find her cat friend missing, a half-cleaned dead black eagle, and Aela staring vacantly upward. She questioned this and did not enjoy the answer one bit. “What the fuck do you _mean_ he jumped up into the sky?”  
  
“I mean what I said,” Aela responded, in a daze. “I… we were talking, he was jumping around and then--like a bow launched from an arrow--up he went.”  
  
“The fuck were you talking about then?”  
  
“Really? That’s what you want to focus on, what we talked about?”  
  
Yagraz got up in Aela’s grill to remind her that the Orc was not at all afraid of the Nord as their comrades were and that Yagraz was by far the more capable fighter in close range. “I’m focusing on what I can do things about right now. So if the two of you were talking something that might have activated some weird Meridian recall device, I--”  
  
A tojay Khajiit landing on Yagraz put an end to the pending argument. “Y’all need to run!” Mohamara shouted to them as he scrambled to the ground. “Kodlak! Farkas! On your feet, Companions!”  
  
Farkas hopped to his feet from laying on his back and drew his greatsword in one fluid motion. “Where’s the fool who needs killing?”  
  
“You’ll be the fool that _get_ killed in a few minutes!” The cat ignored Yagraz and Aela’s confused looks and went behind Farkas to attempt to push him. “Run! Everyone, you need to grab your stuff and go, like _now_.”  
  
“Hold on, short-stuff,” Yagraz started as she walked over and picked the Khajiit up. “What’s going on? Where were you up there?”  
  
Mohamara grabbed Yagraz by the face and brought it close to his to whisper. “Meridia is going to blow up the temple, and none of you want to be here when it happens.”  
  
Without changing her expression, Yagraz set Mohamara back on the ground. She calmly packed up Mohamara’s stuff and hers and went to physically pick up Kodlak from his sleeping spot. “We need to start running. Farkas, grab Kodlak’s stuff.”  
  
“Right.” The wolf-twin quickly gathered up his stuff and followed after Yagraz as she started to _book it_.  
  
Aela did the same but had far less to grab so she was able to catch up quicker. “What in Oblivion are we running away from?!”  
  
“An angry Daedra, that’s what!” Yagraz ignored Kodlak as he started to wake up from the running. “Meridia is doing some house cleaning, and none of us would survive it!”  
  
“I knew Telma was putting her life at risk doing that stuff,” Farkas commented as they kept running south toward Dragon Bridge.  
  
Yagraz wasn’t looking back, she knew better, but she could tell something was happening from the way the clouds started to break apart and vanish--as if struck by a shockwave.  
  
“Look out!”  
  
Farkas’ shout saved Aela and Yagraz from being struck by long trails of lightning that followed the road, upending the worn stone and setting trees alight as they passed. For a moment, all the light vanished from the sky, and it was night time again.  
  
“Don’t look back!” Yagraz ran as fast as she could, and found it odd that the Red Shoes enchantment on her boots didn’t activate. “You’ll go blind! Do not look back!”   
  
They felt the explosion long before they heard it. The ground under their feet shook, like an earthquake. From behind them came a strong shockwave that tore leaves from the trees they passed. But after that came an even stronger shockwave that knocked them all off their feet and sent them rolling down the road--they could hear the explosion at that time, but the noise was intermingled with the rushing air, so they could not pick it out.  
  
Where had once been the Temple of Meridia was now a smoking crater, strewn across the mountainside. Aela had to dodge to the side to avoid part of Meridia’s statue striking her as it bounced down the road and eventually tumbled away into the valley below.  
  
“Wow,” Farkas commented as he looked at the plume of smoke and ash rising from the mountain. “That must have been a really dirty house.”  
  
\--  
  
High above the smoking mountain, Meridia watched the ash rocks settle through the Vessel’s eyes. The necromancer who dared trespass was dead, and her temple in ruins. The beacon orbited her like a moon. And in moments, Dawnbreaker--her mighty weapon--rose from the temple ruins undamaged. She touched a finger to it, restoring the power that had been stolen from the weapon to power the squatter’s vile corruptions, and called it back to her throne in the Colored Rooms.  
  
With the work done, she freed herself from the Vessel and watched him take in the ruin that had become of Kilkreath.  
  
He grieved for her holy temple. Even though it was not the same one he had been brought too sixteen thousand years from that moment, he still held Kilkreath as his ‘home’. She had gleaned these things from their time together.  
  
“Hear me, mortal.” Meridia permitted the Vessel, her son, to be sluggish in his attending to her command. Grieving for what was lost and could never be reclaimed was an important part of her faith, after all. “As you are inadequate to be my Champion, you will go amongst my faithful and spread the word of the return of my splendor to Skyrim. You will do this as long as you are here, in this time. Planning around the Mad God’s schedule is… irksome, but I haven’t the means to keep you longer than he intends. So, while you are here I command you: Grow mighty, grow in influence, and build for me a new temple on my sacred mountain.”  
  
The Khajiit wiped away the tears he had shed for the temple and tried to get into the pose of supplication once more. “Y-yes, my Lady. Your will be done.”  
  
There was but one last thing to attend to, then Meridia could release her avatar. She accessed the beacon and reactivated its higher functions. Once it was initialized, she used it to locate another piece of lost property. She found it in the Reach, a Hagraven nest, and summoned it to her hand with but a thought.  
  
The avatar of light approached the cat and lifted his head out of the supplication pose. He, of course, had no idea what was happening as she wrapped the fine silver chain around his neck and clipped it for him.  
  
“There.” Her tone became demonstrably warmer as the amulet’s miniature beacon lit up, and she could feel the earnest love from her son’s heart flowing back into her. “All is forgiven, servant. Go now, and see my will done. Know that I love you. Goodbye.”  
  
Once more the cat began to drift back down to the surface of Nirn. Meridia only slightly adjusted his course so he wouldn’t land directly on top of the molten rock, and vanished from the world.  
  
It was only when she was fully herself again did she remember she had forgotten to remove those unsightly scars.  
  
“Meri-pants,” Sheogorath called from the arena of paranoia. “Did you blow up a mountain without me?”  
  
“Well I would have been happy to have you there,” the Lady of Light and Life said without raising her voice. Sheogorath was aware of everything that happened in the madman’s mind, after all. “But someone couldn’t be bothered to get off their orange and purple backside.”  
  
“I can’t miss my soaps, Meri-pants! We’ve got sandalwood squaring up with High Rock Spring for the Sudsy Championship!”  
  
“You know sandalwood’s going to win by cheating. They do it every time.”  
  
“Well if they fight enough times, surely High Rock Spring will wisen up and--damnit High Rock Spring! That’s the two-thousand and fifth time you’ve fallen for that trick!”  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slowly working the yucks back into the story after last chapter. Progress!


	22. Uncle Sanguine would be Proud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara attends a Khajiit party.

\---  
**Chapter 22: Uncle Sanguine would be Proud**  
  
Mohamara sat on the side of the road looking up at what used to be the Kilkreath Temple. He was actually seated on part of the roof that had escaped being launched into the river valley below by some nearby trees. Behind him, the beacon pulsed periodically with solar energy.  
  
He was a mess, to put it bluntly. Kilkreath was gone because he wasn’t _good enough_ to be a Champion. And the reason he wasn’t good enough was he’d been honest with Meridia. He didn’t mind not being a Champion--he wasn’t a great warrior, so whatever had lurked in the temple would likely be too much for him to handle. But the faithful of Skyrim now had nowhere to go for their worship because of him.  
  
He’d just have to start on a new temple… which would require architects, lumber, quarried stone, artisans, and _so much money_. Mohamara held his head in his hands at the thought of how expensive the temple would be in terms of raw gold. But it was Meridia’s direct orders--there was no way out of the situation unless Sheogorath decided to end his vacation.  
  
But when he looked up at where the temple had been, the guilt ate at him. If he didn’t do it then someone else in the faith would be asked to complete the temple. The absolute least he could do was get the infrastructure in place to see the temple completed. Ideally, after the mountain had cooled down into solid rock again.  
  
The Khajiit was so wrapped up in the temple, he didn’t notice the Companions coming back at first. It became hard to not notice them after Yagraz started poking his face incessantly to get a reaction out of him. He responded as a friend should, and bit her.  
  
She lifted her hand, with Mohamara hanging from her finger like some sort of furry fish and grinned at the Companions. “See? Told you he was alright.”  
  
“Doesn’t that hurt?” Farkas spoke the minds of Aela and Kodlak as they watched this play out.  
  
“Not really--he’s biting with his molars.” Yagraz shrugged and set the tojay down. “So… how was Meridia?”  
  
“She was mildly annoyed,” the Khajiit admitted, hiding his guilt under a layer of humor. “Someone squatting in her temple, from what I could pick up. But, hey, at least the beacon didn’t get blown up too.”  
  
Yagraz saw through him like a window and squinted down at the Khajiit. “What did you do?”  
  
With his cover blown, the cat deflated. “Meridia was going to make me her Champion but decided against it when I told her why it took me so long to get the beacon. Which meant she had to blow up the temple because of me.”  
  
The Orc woman patted him on the shoulder and set down his backpack beside him. “That sucks short-stuff. But hey, at least you didn’t lie to a Daedra--that always ends badly. Now come on, long walk back to Whiterun.”  
  
“Hasn’t he told you yet?” Aela cut in with a disdainful scowl. “Apparently he wants to stay in Haafingar.”  
  
“I _do_ have a job that needs doing,” Mohamara snapped at the Nord woman. He glared at Aela before softening his expression and looking at Yagraz. “Is.. is that okay? I mean, I could always visit, or maybe move to Whiterun sometime?”  
  
The Orc Companion grinned and ruffled the Khajiit’s hair. “Of course it’s okay. Finishing what you start is the first step to fixing that future problem you got goin’ on. I’ll be calling you on the regular, so you know.” She stood to her full height and started to list things off on her fingers. “So be sure to look after yourself. Tell me the when and where for the wedding as soon as you know so I can inspect the match they got for you. Oh, and next time I come to Haafingar I’ll bring the rest of your stuff from my place. One last thing….” She crouched down to look at Mohamara face to face before she put on her ‘I will legitimately murder you’ face. “If you’re in trouble and don’t ask for help I will hunt you down and _beat your ass_ , do you hear me?”  
  
“Love you too, best buddy.” The tojay and Orc exchanged hugs and went their separate ways for a while.  
  
\--  
  
Solitude was not having a good time. There were funerals for those that had died in Alduin’s attack every day--accessing the temple of the divines for anything not funeral-related was impossible for a week’s time.  
  
Mohamara found it difficult to keep Elisif’s spirits up, but when the Khajiit caravan finally arrived, the influx of goods and money they brought with them acted as an ointment for the city and by extension, Elisif.  
  
Ma’dran was a cathay-raht, a ripped eight-foot tall panther-man and usually in sturdy merchant’s clothes of blue linen. His very presence within the city made the guards nervous. He had scars from many battles and knew weapons like Mohamara knew enchantments. If it could be used to kill something, or someone, Ma’dran knew it. And since his caravan was allowed in the city, the Nords began to realize they had a kindred spirit in the jaguar-man.  
  
To everyone’s surprise, one of the first things Ma’dran did when he got to Solitude was to purchase one of the last standing houses in the Avenue’s District--Proudspire Manor. The cathay-raht looked enormously pleased with himself handing over almost a wagonful of gold for the property.  
  
“Ri’saad got his share,” the jaguar-man spoke with a rumbling voice that rattled Mohamara’s bones. “House puts us at risk of dragon attacks, but this one suspects it will also endear Nords to us. To buy and sell more goods, yes?”  
  
“Your purchase is greatly appreciated, sir,” Falk spoke as he stared, flabbergasted at the wagon of gold being unloaded. “Even with the recent unpleasantness, the city is greatly… served by your presence here.” Most of the court was in attendance at the event, as Elisif wanted to meet Ma’dran herself.  
  
When the deed changed hands, Elisif clapped her hands and servants brought several baskets of furs to present to Ma’dran. They looked, from Mohamara’s perspective, like furred sections of clothes that had been removed. Some of them he recognized from Elisif’s own wardrobe. “I have spent the time to learn about what previous Jarls of Solitude have done to your people,” the Jarl said with a solemn expression. “I’m… horrified that my late husband would think to give me such things. And that a man as good as him would not see the inherent vileness of owning such things. I return them to you, with my apologies. I’m afraid I don’t know the funerary practices of the Khajiit, but you have my permission to do whatever is necessary for these lost souls.”  
  
Mohamara looked at the fur from his place among the court and pieced together what the Jarl was implying. It was only when he saw a cat’s tail among the furs--roughly cathay sized, that he realized what had been going on.  
  
“This one thanks you for the return of lost kin,” Ma’dran took up the baskets with no problems and rested them on his shoulder. “Khajiit will send them back to the homeland, where they can find peace with warm sands.” Then the cathay-raht slapped his chest and gestured outward. “But to more pleasant things! This one invites kindly Jarl, and Ri’saad’s ja’khajiit to Khajiit’s new home. We must make the house a place of happiness, no?”  
  
“I would be happy to attend.” Elisif’s face went from solemn to jovial, perhaps happy that Ma’dran had not dwelled on the unfortunate fate of so many Khajiit. Then she turned to Mohamara. “What about you, my Fool?”  
  
The tojay had been busy trying to fight the urge to dive into the sympathetic bonds of the Khajiit pelts. ‘Maybe I could find out who they were’, he’d thought to himself. But no, it would only lead to him going blind for another week to try and help people far beyond help. He shook himself back to the present when Elisif repeated her question. “Yeah… yeah, I’ll go, no problem.”  
  
Ma’dran let loose a cheer in the Khajiit language, ta’agra, and turned to leave the Blue Palace courtyard.  
  
Elisif’s court began to file back into the Palace, but the Jarl herself came over to Mohamara. “I heard from Falk that you made quite a substantial purchase of land after delivering my letter.”  
  
The cat watched Ma’dran leave, then looked up at his Jarl. “Oh, that. Well… someone has to watch Wolfskull, to make sure no one tries to get in there again.”  
  
Elisif nodded, putting on her serious face. “Agreed. If we could spare the men, I would set up a permanent watch there myself. You said there’s a fort… inside the cave?” When Mohamara nodded, Elisif pinched the bridge of her nose. “Of all the stupid--who would put a fort _inside_ a cavern?”  
  
“Well, legend says that the fort used to be on the surface but sank down and the cave formed on top of it. Perhaps one of the Divines hoped to lock it away, but the cave worked its way through?”  
  
That seemed to get the Jarl thinking. “Yes, perhaps I should speak to the priest at the temple of the divines about it. Perhaps we could beseech the Divines to seal the cave permanently.”  
  
“Not all miracles are made of magic, my Jarl.” Mohamara grinned as only cats could. “Since Kilkreath recently… exploded, there has been a lot of debris in the roads and waterways I’ve heard. Rather than just casting it off into deeper water, if you permitted, those boulders could be used to seal up Wolfskull Cave.”  
  
“Are you suggesting… we make Wolfskull Cave a dumping ground?” Elisif faked looking outraged before her amusement burned through it. “Okay, I find the idea entirely too entertaining. I’ll talk to Falk about it later. Now, as my Fool I want you to go ahead of me and help Ma’dran set up his house for whatever event they’re throwing. I’ll need you to help me avoid social faux pas when it happens.”  
  
Mohamara nodded and waited for Elisif to return to the Palace before he trotted off to find Ma’dran.  
  
Proudspire Manor was, per the name, a manor house with a considerable courtyard and small orchard of fruiting trees behind it. The property rested between the partially destroyed bard’s college and the curtain wall of the Blue Palace. When Mohamara saw it, he had no doubts that the property could house an entire caravan of Khajiit comfortably.  
  
Ma’dran’s caravan was busy unloading things from the caravan to the manor, furniture mostly. Their wagons lined the outer wall of the property while their horses were in the process of being taken to an attached stable. Among the caravaneers were many cathay, but not exclusively that morph. There were digitigrade suthay and suthay-raht among them, somehow shorter than a cathay despite walking on their digits.  
  
There were nine other cathay-raht in Ma’dran’s caravan, with the shortest of them being a seven-foot tall female. And Mohamara had the unfortunate luck that it was this group that spotted him first as he entered the property. The giants closed in on him before he realized he needed to run, and soon Mohamara found himself in the middle of a crowd of giant cats all squealing to each other.  
  
They talked to each other and Mohamara in ta’agra, so Mohamara knew he’d likely have to engage a Tongues spell to speak back to them. However, his lack of response in the Khajiit language did not stop the cathay-raht from passing Mohamara around and chattering to each other. By the time Mohamara got the spell going where he could speak to them, he’d already had his tail measured, more than one had dared look up his robe, and his mouth had been pried open so that they could see his teeth.  
  
“Eee! Look at young one’s little fangs!”  
  
“Couth youff pweaf gehh yourf fingahs ouff my mouf?”  
  
“Such big ears on one so small!”  
  
“Hey-ow! Don’t pull so hard!”  
  
“Look, toes so fluffy on the bottom! But no claws!”  
  
“ _Give me back my shoes or I swear on Malacath’s knuckle-dusters--_ ”  
  
“What has you all giggling like young ones with first moon sugar?” Ma’dran appeared at last, and the circle of giant Khajiit broke apart to let him in. He looked down at Mohamara with an arched brow before reaching down and yanking the tojay out of the larger Khajiit’s ensnarement. “Ah, Ri’saad’s tojay!” Ma'dran set the smaller Khajiit on his feet and barked orders to the other cathay-raht to get back to work.  
  
“I don’t suppose I could get my shoes back?” Mohamara asked the far, _far_ larger Khajiit while being gently pushed into the manor’s basement level.  
  
Ma’dran recoiled at Mohamara’s words and shook his head in disapproval. “You speak like a Nord, is as Ri’saad said. You know nothing of our ways. Your things will be returned once the caravan is done fawning over them, and you. It is so rare to have a tojay outside Elsweyr.” He leaned in close and whispered into Mohamara’s ear. “Some will ask you to spin moon sugar for them, and will not understand how you cannot know how to do it. Just say Clan Mother forbids spinning moon sugar out of schedule.”  
  
Mohamara hadn’t even known moon sugar was _spun_. He immediately began to work on an idea for how the spun sugar was worked into the crystalline blocks he had seen Ri’saad’s people partake of. “Okay… that’s good. Um, Elisif wants me to make sure she doesn’t insult anyone while she’s here later.”  
  
Madran’s relatively small ears flicked back and he scowled. “It pains this one to hear you speak our people’s language like this. A _tojay_ speaking this way would upset many of the more… delicate Khajiit back in the homeland. It is… this one can know what you say but is like a child. Stilted, slow, no cleverness.” The pushing stopped when they were in a part of the cellar where great casks were stored.  
  
Mohamara could smell wine in them--perhaps they were left by the previous owner. The wine was probably awful from being stored in improper conditions. “Well, that might be because I can’t actually speak ta’agra. I’m using magic.”  
  
Ma’dran rubbed his huge face with his hands and groaned. “That is even _worse_. Oh, tell that to no one save Ri’saad or Ahkari--it would break the hearts of our caravaneers were they to hear. And you would get no rest until they taught you the language.”  
  
It was the tojay’s turn to flick his ears back and scowl. “Alright. But to make this clear, I don’t actually want to know the Khajiit language. It’s bad enough knowing what my name means in this tongue.”  
  
The dark-furred cathay-raht peeked between his fingers. “What is wrong with your name, young one? Was your mother cruel?”  
  
The tojay shrugged. “You heard it when Elisif talked to me earlier--don’t tell me you didn’t.”  
  
“Mohamara, child of love, what is so awful about that?”  
  
“You went further down the translation route than I did, so kudos I guess? When I looked it up, my name translated to ‘bastard’. Kind of puts you off learning the language, that.” And he knew that the meaning held true in this time too, for he felt a sympathetic bond between the word Ma’dran heard him speak, and himself.  
  
The cathay-raht gave Mohamara a pitying look. “This one understands. He wishes you would give our language a chance, but knows that it would be unpleasant.” He took a deep breath and clapped his hands together. “Let us dwell on it no longer. It is in the past, forgotten, gone! What are we talking about? Oh, yes!”  
  
Meanwhile, in the mind of a madman, Meridia suddenly realized she had made a terrible mistake trying to name her son after her sister.  
  
\--  
  
Ma’dran spent a long while going over the party they were planning for the housewarming. Mostly it would be held outside, there would be plenty of moon-sugar food but since Elisif was attending they were going to make some sugar-free food. There wasn’t going to be much pomp or ceremony so most of the risk of insult was actually on the sugar-addled Khajiit offending the Jarl.  
  
The cathay-raht offered to let Mohamara stay with his caravan in Proudspire, which the tojay took him up on. It was going to be better than having to sleep in the kitchens since most of the vacant rooms had been destroyed by Alduin clipping the Palace. A young suthay man gave him back his shoes before he left to get his things and return.  
  
When the time for the housewarming came around, Mohamara sat next to Elisif on pillows which surrounded a bonfire while the caravaneers went about their bizarre festivities. Elisif’s housecarl standing behind her like a gargoyle kept most people from interacting with her aside to offer food. Sometimes Elisif would inquire about what sort of songs they were singing, and most often they seemed to be songs of fruitful hunts.  
  
It was only much later that Mohamara would remember that it was Hircine’s summoning day, and later still that he would realize whom they referred to when speaking of the ‘Hungry Cat’.  
  
What Mohamara also didn’t know was that Ma’dran had noticed how the tojay was not eating or drinking anything from what the caravan had prepared. Mohamara would only eat what had been prepared for Elisif that the Jarl didn’t want at the moment. As soon as the tojay smelled moon sugar, he set the food or drink aside. There were many problems with the tojay that Ma’dran knew Ri’saad would ask for help correcting as time went on, but the cathay-raht knew he could fix this right away.  
  
Ma’dran had two glasses filled with spiced wine, purchased from a woman in the Wells District, and mixed a chunk of moon sugar the size of his smallest cleaving tooth into one. The spices in the wine blocked the smell of moon sugar from the cathay-raht, so they would certainly hide it from the weak-nosed tojay.  
  
Ma’dran was all smiles good cheer when he brought the drinks to the Jarl and her Fool. “This one invites you to drink, to good health, good fortune, and good hunting!” A third glass he poured for himself and held it up as a toast.  
  
Elisif toasted him quickly enough, but Mohamara was hesitant. Perhaps he was stronger-nosed than most tojay and could smell something wrong, perhaps he simply didn’t like spiced wine. But nonetheless, the three of them drank--the human and cathay-raht far more than the tojay who was suppressing the urge to gag.  
  
“I freely admit to being a milk-drinker,” the Fool said as he forced himself to sip more of the wine. “Alcohol is just… nasty, ugh.”  
  
Elisif’s housecarl snorted, while the Jarl herself got a good laugh out of it.  
  
Ma’dran finished his goblet and returned to his seat to wait for the next step. It didn’t take long before the tojay was visibly swaying on his cushion, and proved that it was as Ma’dran had feared. The Fool had never taken moon sugar before--he was showing the signs of a kitten tasting their first grains. Disorientation, pupils contracting and dilating out of control, and finally passing out.  
  
Elisif and her housecarl were mildly alarmed when the tojay fell backward and spilled the remained of his wine all over himself, but Ma’dran was on his feet and to their side of the bonfire in no time at all.  
  
“Hmm, perhaps this one should have given ja’khajiit a smaller cup,” the cathay-raht said to the Jarl to lighten the mood. Ma’dran faced no resistance from either Nord as he carried the tojay away from the scene, then passed him off to a member of his caravan to sleep off the sugar and booze.  
  
However, during the suthay woman getting the tojay out of his wine-soaked clothes before they stained, she happened to glance at his face and saw him staring back at her. His eyes had changed color, from their usual grey-blue to one orange, and one purple. The last thing the poor suthay remembered of that night was the unnaturally wide grin the tojay had given her.  
  
\--  
  
Hi! I don’t usually get to talk to you folks directly. Mostly because I can’t think on enough layers to be constantly aware that I’m not really _real_ , you know. Come to think of it, I’m probably not going to be aware that I ever had this brief talk past the wall with you fine people.  
  
I just want to say something to you folks real quick.  
  
I’m **not** enjoying this. This is not a fun adventure for me. And it really _pisses me off_ that some of you are enjoying my suffering. You think I can’t _see you_ right now, looking at those screens at all this shit happening to me?  
  
Bear in mind when you keep on reading my awful adventure--when you look in on the Cat, the Cat looks in on you.  
  
With love, Mohamara.  
  
\--  
  
The tojay woke up, stinking of wine, in his underwear, in the middle of a cat pile made up of sleeping caravaneers. When he processed all these pieces of information, he groaned to himself and started the process of getting out of the pile.  
  
‘Tell me I didn’t get drunk and… oh, Yagraz is going to give me _so much shit_ about this.’ Mohamara thought to himself rather than talk, so that he wouldn’t wake any of the Khajiit up and stumbled away from the cat pile. Some of the caravaneers tried to grab at him instinctively as he left, and Mohamara was mildly glad he had so few clothes for them to catch their claws on to drag him back.  
  
He was in the Proudspire Manor basement he realized, which at least meant he hadn’t gotten up to much mischief while drunk, he thought.  
  
‘See this is why you need to refuse the wine next time.’ Mohamara berated himself in his head as he ascended the stairs to make his way to the small room on the second floor set aside for him. ‘You’re too small to be heavy drinkers--less blood means less blood-alcohol level needed.’  
  
Thankfully he was young enough to be able to drink and not get a hangover, or perhaps he hadn’t drunk all that much. Mohamara found his room locked when he got to it, but easily unlocked the door with a bit of magic. Inside he found his barely made bed occupied, and most of his stuff strewn across the floor. He let the two cathay stay in the far-too-small for them bed and started to pick up his things.  
  
At least nothing had been stolen.  
  
However, when he powered on his slate he found that a missive servitor open with a list of things written in exemplary calligraphy and then scratched out. It read as such:  
  
**To Do List**  
1\. Stare at nothing, and have nothing stare back at me.  
2\. Catch that motherfucking tail.  
3\. Fix all the streetlights in Solitude.  
4\. Jazzercise.  
5\. Kiss a girl and find out I don’t like it.  
7\. Find out who stole 6.  
8\. Solve world hunger, tell no one.  
9\. Play that funky music.  
  
Mohamara fell back onto his butt and held his head as he read through the list. “Oh, Malacath’s threatening tusks. I’m going to be in so much trouble, aren’t I?”  
  
“You certainly will be if you don’t talk quieter, ja’khajiit,” said one of the cathay in Mohamara’s bed.  
  
“Bah,” said the other. “Is more quietly, not quieter.”  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us take a moment to reflect on how monumentally pissed Potema would be to discover her special necromantic ritual cave had become Haafingar's first official landfill. Mmm. That's some juicy rage right there.


	23. Laid to Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara helps people out, in Solitude and Morthal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mamas, don't let your babies grow up to do magic~

  
  
\---  
**Chapter 23: Laid to Rest**  
  
Mohamara went to the docks with some of the caravan’s fishers to catch breakfast. It had been a bit awkward to change into his swimsuit with the layabouts still in his bed but they never moved their heads up to peek so ultimately not an issue.  
  
Haafingar’s waters were significantly warmer than Eastmarch’s, likely due to the magma chamber of the inactive volcano that was Mount Kilkreath heating up the environment. So the tojay was able to put on a robe to make the journey to the East Empire Company docks. When he got outside he saw what, apparently, he’d done to the lamp posts and braziers that lit up Solitude’s streets at night.  
  
Stone statues of winged figures replaced what had been wooden posts holding up tallow candle lamps, and in their hands, they held faceted orbs that shone from within with golden light--like the beacon or Mohamara’s amulet. As the sun rose from the north, the light from the lamps waned until they were inert. The new street light statues came in pairs, except at intersections where there would be eight--and in the destroyed part of the Avenues District, the rubble had been cleared for the new additions.  
  
The tojay decided that if no one knew he’d done it, he wouldn’t claim credit for it. That way no one could ask _how_ he’d done it.  
  
Each of the fishers for the caravan specialized in getting different sorts of fish. There was a mudcrabber, a small-line fisher, two slaughterfish hunters, an egg collector, and a salmon fisher whom Mohamara would be helping. After the initial giggling at Mohamara’s swimsuit, they became envious of the water breathing enchantment on it.  
  
With his amulet back, Mohamara was happy enough to enchant some of their gear with the enchantment as well. To them, it must have seemed strange how the tojay would pinch one facet of the amulet and draw out hair-fine threads of golden light then wove them into earrings, bracelets, and other pieces of jewelry for the Khajiit. But the effects were most welcome.  
  
The tojay found salmon hunting surprisingly enjoyable. There was always a sense of satisfaction from snatching salmon out of the air when they jumped up waterfalls, but also a thrill that came from chasing them down in the water. With a second, larger, Khajiit to herd the salmon towards him, Mohamara found it easy to kill multiple salmon at once. He used his fangs, of course, but also sympathetic bonds to transmit the sensation of death to other nearby salmon. This stunned the fish and made them easy to eliminate one by one.  
  
Mohamara had to explain how he was doing so well to the salmon hunter, who demanded answers when they brought in their first haul. The suthay woman tugged on her ears when she found out it was magic. “Mama said to become a mage, but no, this one knew better than wise old mama. Foolish.”  
  
With Mohamara helping, the salmon quota was met before an hour had passed. From there, he helped the egg collector hunt down and collect fish roe while the suthay salmon hunter guarded the catch.  
  
A distant, but familiar, chirping in the water from the north towards Haafingar bay froze Mohamara in the water for a minute. It was so obvious, that the cathay egg collector thought he’d been paralyzed by a stone turtle until the tojay moved again. Needless to say, Mohamara did not venture northward with the egg collector for possible salmon roe and opted to collect histcarp and slaughterfish eggs closer to the docks instead.  
  
It was a bountiful catch all around, and when the fishers were ready they started back up the road to Solitude. The salmon hunter even showed Mohamara how to balance his basket of salmon as she did, which made for an amusing sight. At least, a brigade of Imperials escorting Stormcloak captives up to Castle Dour thought so.  
  
“Excuse me,” an unfamiliar Breton spoke and came up to the Khajiit train. Mohamara recognized her uniform right away, Restoration robes with armored limbs and an amulet of Stendarr on prominent display. “Were you here for the dragon attack?”  
  
“No,” the cathay-raht slaughterfish hunter in charge of the fishers responded easily. “We came long after.”  
  
“I see. Have you perchance seen a tojay Khajiit around town, then?”  
  
The salmon hunter and mudcrabber wordlessly stepped in front of Mohamara and used their basket and crabbing buckets to block him from the Vigilant’s view.  
  
“Tojay is rare Khajiit, would not be allowed out of homeland. You will not find one in Skyrim.” With the conversation at an end, the train of fishers resumed their march, with Mohamara being careful to hide away.  
  
It proved in vain, however, as Mohamara was yanked away from the fishers by his tail when passing by the Bretons. As one the caravaneers set down their catches to bear fang and claws on the Vigilant.  
  
The Vigilant shoved Mohamara to the ground and held him there with a boot while she held onto his tail. The tojay kept the salmon basket over his head to protect against mace blows to his skull.  
  
“You let ja’khajiit go, we only cut you up a little,” snarled the mudcrabber as the fishers circled around the Vigilant. Someone nearby was calling for the guards.  
  
Mohamara heard two more sets of armored feet step up beside the Breton. Of course, Vigilants rarely went anywhere alone.  
  
“This _thing_ isn’t worth you defending it,” implored the Breton Vigilant. “It gives itself freely to a Daedra, conjures them to do its bidding and draws the wrath of the Divines with its every waking action.”  
  
“To be fair,” Mohamara attempted and held up a finger, “I literally only know one conjuration spell.” For his trouble, one of the Vigilants flanking the Breton stomped on his hand.  
  
“Silence! Whether we fail doing our Lady’s work or live to see the glory, you will die today, monster!”  
  
“...Wait, isn’t S’rendarr a male?” The small-line fisherman asked.  
  
“Fool,” hissed the Breton’s Dunmer compatriot to her. “Kill the cat, and let us be done.”  
  
“For Boethiah!” The Breton lifted her mace high, and probably wouldn’t have been able to get through the salmon basket before the Khajiit finished her off, but there was a commotion. Soon after, the Breton’s grip on Mohamara’s tail relaxed and he was able to scoot away to the safety of the fishers.  
  
When he looked up, he saw that a Stormcloak captive had broken away from the escort and was choking the Breton using her own bindings to do so. Shortly afterward two archers cut down the other false Vigilants, and Imperial soldiers caught up to the escapee.  
  
“I couldn’t stand by and let them kill something so cute,” the Stormcloak soldier said as she released the dead Breton and went back to the escort without resistance. “Orkey himself couldn’t do that cute face harm.”  
  
\--  
  
While Mohamara chewed on his breakfast salmon, the fishers told the rest of the caravan the story about the fake Vigilants. So long as his mouth was full of grilled fish, the tojay wasn’t asked to comment on the event. He didn’t think Boethiah would be particularly pleased with her servant’s attempt on his life. It was too direct, they didn’t have enough contingencies, and worse still: They’d failed.  
  
However, Ma’dran picked up on something else that the fishers had told the caravan--how Mohamara could enchant things without the ‘big table’, or an arcane enchanter. Mohamara couldn’t help but snort at the idea of using one of those hideously outmoded pieces of arcana. More than half the enchantment’s power would be lost on the poor transfer rate alone, with only grand souls having enough to survive the process with a strong enchantment.  
  
Ma’dran approached Mohamara after breakfast with a request: Enchant some of the caravan’s weapons so that they could be sold at a higher price. However what he didn’t tell Mohamara right away was that as the tojay was doing this he made an offer to the city guard to have their swords and shields enchanted by Mohamara as well.  
  
The tojay only picked up on the trick when he noticed a lot of Solitude wolf-emblem shields being added to the pile. “I’ll handle this order,” the tojay said to Ma’dran when he figured it all out, “if I get a cut of the gold.”  
  
“Ten percent,” Ma’dran fired back.  
  
“Fifteen percent.”  
  
“Twelve percent, highest this one will go.”  
  
“Deal.” With that out of the way, Mohamara went back to drawing soul-thread out of his amulet for enchanting.  
  
Meridian amulets were morpholiths. They were objects capable of holding different grades of transfinite power sources, same with soul gems. But Oblivion-made morpholiths could hold exponentially more than Nirn-mined ones. They also required rather heavy investment into conjuration to obtain, a pact with a Daedric Lord, and most were one-use same with soul gems.  
  
If all that set up hadn’t been done, Nirn-grown soul gems beat out Oblivion-grown morpholiths in terms of sheer money and time saved. But once the infrastructure was in place, Oblivion-grown morpholiths kicked the living annihilation shit out of any Nirn-grown soul gem.  
  
The unique configuration for Meridian morpholiths made them ‘rechargeable’. Mohamara’s amulet drew from the Skyrim regional beacon, which drew directly from the sun. He could get as much common grade soul-thread as he needed from the amulet, or he could risk Meridia’s displeasure and draw grand soul-thread from the beacon.  
  
Perhaps, if he lived long enough, he could learn to draw soul thread from sunlight.  
  
In two hour’s time, the Solitude city guard became the most well-equipped guard force in Skyrim. Their swords enchanted with a torpor effect that induced exhaustion in those they fought, while their shields were reinforced with a kinetic dampening effect.  
  
The cathay who would be selling the weapons watched in wonderment as Mohamara did his enchanting thing. “This one isn’t able to understand,” he said. “Khajiit thought only Azura’s Star could be soul gem with many uses? And none spin thread like ja’khajiit can.”  
  
“Well,” Mohamara bit the common soul-thread to end the line and finish the enchantment. “Most soul-trap enchantments from this time period aren’t sophisticated enough to properly pair with Azura’s Star.” As he worked the steel greatsword began to gather frost on its surface from the ice enchantment. “Azura’s Star can hold up to nine grand souls, one in each arm and another in the hub. So if you have the honor of using it, you can get some _unbelievably_ strong enchantments.”  
  
Mohamara remembered the first time he’d seen Azura’s Star in the news scry. A failed attempt by a Bosmer enchanter to create a Lk’Fonald’s ice-cream maker that would never break. She had been _so close_ but it just wasn’t meant to be. Valenwood had been trapped under two feet of soft-serve for a week, an ecological nightmare.  
  
Ma’dran grinned like a madcat when the last of the Solitude guards took their new weapons and handed over a satchel of the Jarl’s gold for the job. In a few short minutes, a considerably smaller coin purse found its way to Mohamara, who took it as a sign for a break.  
  
“Weird,” he said to himself as he walked up to the Blue Palace. “That my place of work is now the break from the house. All in one day. Ugh.”  
  
Elisif lit up when the tojay appeared in the throne room before her energy was sapped by Falk talking about a letter from Igmund about a contribution to Solitude’s rebuilding effort. Bryling, the only Thane of Solitude currently in town, filled Mohamara in on what had been discussed while he was gone. Elisif had instituted a tax on inheritances left by the wealthiest members of her nobility. And General Tullius had sent a runner to announce that due to generous contributions from the Imperial province’s citizens, Solitude would no longer have to foot the bill for the Legion’s activities in Skyrim.  
  
“So, is the General going to perhaps pay our Jarl back for all the months where she _was_ footing the bill?” Mohamara’s question had been in the tone of the Fool, to try and get a laugh out  
  
The Jarl flicked her hand at her Fool. “There is no need. With the new tax in place, and the freed up funds, along with Igmund’s generous contribution, we should be able to refill our coffers and see the city fully repaired.” A sudden thought caused Elisif’s good mood to waver. “Though… Morthal was attacked, and we didn’t offer any help to them. Falk, draw up a letter to Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone, I want to see if there’s anything we can do.”  
  
“Ah, I’m sure she would appreciate it, my Jarl.” Falk started with his ‘that’s a stupid idea’ tone of voice. “But Morthal the city didn’t take any damage from the Stormcloak attack. Ulfric’s boys never got close enough.”  
  
“Oh. Well them she could use funds to help secure her Hold further against future attacks.”  
  
“Perhaps… we could make that offer _after_ Solitude is fully repaired?”  
  
“Or your Fool can go down to the swamp and do for Morthal what he just got done doing for his Jarl?” Mohamara cut in and stepped away from the gallery pillars with a bow. “I just got done enchanting all the Solitude city guard’s weapons and shields. If you please, my Jarl, I could ply my craft for this… Idgrod?”  
  
The Jarl looked at Mohamara and then at Falk. Firebeard looked pensive for a time, perhaps trying to find a reason not to help Morthal. But he did not do so quickly enough, and Elisif clapped her hands to announce her decision.  
  
“Very well. Fool, I charge you to go to Morthal and offer your enchantment services to the Jarl. While you are there, see if there is anything we can do to ease their burden, and bring back that information. You may leave whenever you’re ready.”  
  
“My Jarl, you cannot be serious.” The new court wizard, a High Elf man with a Han Syke beard-mustache combo, Melaran, stepped out of the gallery pillars to wag his finger at Mohamara. “This Khajiit couldn’t have possibly enchanted all the city guards swords, let alone shields. That would be over three hundred enchantments, _weeks of effort_ , and a volume of soul gems that would have been detected by the customs office. It is simply improbable that--”  
  
“Hey, you. Guard guy.” Mohamara cut off the elf looking to increase his influence by tearing the Khajiit down by addressing one of the guards standing watch at the hall to Elisif’s quarters. “Could you come over here?” When the guard was standing in front of them, Mohamara touched the wolf-emblemed shield, and the Nordic knots he had woven into it lit up as if they’d always been there. “See that knot right there? The one that looks like a cat with three eyes? My signature, thank you.”  
  
Melaran was absolutely gobsmacked as he inspected the shield, as well as the guard’s sword once it was drawn. “How did--this is unlike any enchantment work I’ve _seen_. You could not have possibly--”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t really care enough about you to embarrass you in front of the court as much as you deserve for this. So, to make a long story short: You can learn a lot of things at college when you don’t spend all your free time felatiating the professors.” Mohamara trotted off to the stairs, before turning to pull at his eyelid and stick his tongue out at the High Elf. “Toodles!”  
  
While he left the now shouting High Elf behind, Mohamara considered what would be the optimal enchantments for people living in a swamp. To be blunt, enchanting their armor would probably serve them better than their weapons. Water-walking boots would be incredibly useful to avoid being dragged down into the muck since it also worked on the really muddy ground. Considering the population difference, he didn’t expect the work to take even a day once he actually got down to Hjaalmarch.  
  
Imagine his surprise when he got back to Proudspire Manor and found two High Elf women and Ma’dran chatting to each other while examining some of the tojay’s clothes. The Khajiit carefully cleared his throat to let the trio know he was around. “Ma’dran? Those mine?”  
  
The cathay-raht laughed a bit while the High Elves ignored Mohamara. “Ja’khajiit, this one just let these two examine the craftsmanship of your fancy clothes--perhaps learn how to make it as well?”  
  
“Well if he’s here, I suppose he can fill us in on some things,” one of the High Elves said. Mohamara immediately recognized the voice as one of the tailors Yagraz had taken him to. “Why do these labels on the inside mention ‘automaton washable’, or ‘fabric softener?’ What are those things?”  
  
Mohamara explained as much as he could about the clothes while growing progressively pinker in the face as their questions became inappropriate. Ma’dran seemed to have no issues with them, and Mohamara didn’t want to make a fuss for the caravaneer who had been nice to him. The one thing he was adamant about was refusing to actually sell the clothes to them, or let the tailors take some of the items apart to put back together.  
  
Once they were gone, the tojay and cathay-raht had a brief staring contest. “If I didn’t show up, were you going to sell my stuff to them?”  
  
Ma’dran waved him off. “No, no. Would be stealing. Is one thing to leave things in the open for others to use, is another to take personal things. Besides which,” the jaguar-man held up one of Mohamara’s socks to illustrate his point. “Buyers for clothes in this size are rare. Not worth loss of trust from ja’khajiit and Ri’saad.”  
  
“Okay, good. So hand ‘em over, I need to get ready to go to Hjaalmarch for a bit.”  
  
\--  
  
On the carriage ride over to Morthal, Mohamara did some brainstorming. Perhaps he could develop an army of construction automatons to build the temple instead of needing manpower. It could potentially save him a lot of gold but then would come the quality of life issue. Dwarven automatons filled the perfect niche of intelligence of being intelligent enough to self-plan and execute on ideas without becoming self-aware. But he’d more than likely miss, either making something too stupid to improvise, or too smart to be considered an automaton any longer. And if the war dragged on, his workers would likely be appropriated for the war effort either way to repair Skyrim’s crumbling forts.  
  
Making long-term plans seemed an invitation for Sheogorath to mess things up, which was never good. The Mad God’s vacation time was running close to half a year by that time--how much relaxation could a demented Daedra really need?  
  
Unbeknownst to Mohamara, a fanged feline fiend hid underneath the carriage, waiting to ambush the tojay once the sun was down. However, his patience was tested by the rocky road down to Hjaalmarch, which saw him being slammed into the road multiple times from minor potholes or debris in the road.  
  
It was dusk by the time the carriage reached the frosty southern road into Morthal, and both the Khajiit and the vampire hunting him had laid down to nap on either side of the carriage floor for the trip. Both were jarred awake by the carriage’s stop, and for a moment the vampire forgot his purpose.  
  
The two found each other on either side of the wagon, stretching from their long trip, and froze when they saw each other. The living Khajiit and the cathay vampire stared at each other before Mohamara gathered sunlight in his hands and the vampire drew steel to leap at him, snarling.  
  
The vampire instead found a steel bolt pierce into his mouth, which ruined his composure for the pounce attack. It wasn’t enough to kill him but the repeated blasts of concentrated sunlight from Mohamara saw the undead Khajiit turned to ash in moments.  
  
An aging Orc in leather clothes with plates of armor riveted onto them stepped forward and stowed away his weapon while Mohamara and the carriage driver stared. “Durak, with the Dawnguard,” the Orc introduced himself and offered his hand to the Khajiit to shake.  
  
“Mohamara, a friend of Maria, Fool of Solitude,” responded the Khajiit as he shook hands with the ‘Dawnguard’.  
  
“Don’t know who Maria is, but if she teaches kids like you how to spot vampires, she’s alright in my book.” Durak knelt down to inspect the bizarre spider-web armor the Khajiit vampire had been wearing. “As I suspected, a Volkihar.”  
  
“I’m not a kid--I’m just short.” Mohamara wondered how the Orc could tell a vampire’s bloodline from the ashes, but that wasn’t what interested him the most about what had been said. “Wait, what? Volkihar are ambush predators, why would this one be actively hunting?”  
  
“Most likely it had its lair taken over by a stronger vampire and was looking for thralls to set up a new one. There’s no notes or journal in its pockets, so we won’t know.” Durak stood and dusted the vampire’s remains off his hands. “Look, I don’t know why you’re here, but the wise thing to do is to get back in that carriage and go far away. Morthal’s dealing with a bit of a vampire problem at present.”  
  
“You know, that is an _outstanding idea_ ,” the carriage driver said and quickly got back into his spot. “Come on in, we can make it back to Snowhawk before it gets too dark.”  
  
“Oh by Malacath’s hairy back, no.” Mohamara’s invocation of the Orc Daedra startled Durak. “If there’s one thing Maria would be absolutely livid with me about is letting undead push people around. You fill me in on the situation, and I’ll help you put these corpses back where they belong. In the ground, in case you didn’t--”  
  
A female Nord vampire in similar armor to the Khajiit that had just been slain burst from the bushes and charged at them with ravenous hunger in her eyes. Mohamara fired a bolt of sunlight at her face, which stunned her and opened her up to be shot through the heart by Durak.  
  
“I think I got what you’re saying,” the Orc commented while the vampire woman crumbled to dust. “Come on, let’s get to Highmoon Hall so the Jarl can fill you in on what’s happening.”  
  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't you just hate calling up your local Lk'Fonald's for some a burger delivery with some ice cream, but the ice cream machine is broke? I do.


	24. Daylight Savings Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idgrod saves the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some might call it jumping the shark. I call it the natural progression of what happens when you supercharge a seer with liminal magic.

  
  
\---  
  
**Chapter 24: Daylight Savings Time**  
  
Morthal was palpably dreary. Serious. Uptight. Mohamara could tell that just from the way there was no one out in the village that didn’t look ready to fight something to the death at a moment’s notice. It was rather like an Orc neighborhood, but without the congenial attitude toward neighbors and family.  
  
So he did as he did in Markarth, and began to erode the air of seriousness with a bit of flippancy. Specifically, he whistled a tune while walking to the Jarl’s longhouse. More than one Hjaalmarcher glared at him for doing so, but the cat persisted.  
  
The Jarl’s longhouse, Highmoon Hall, was indeed long. It rather resembled Jorrvaskr in design, but with thatch on the roof to keep the home better insulated. Unlike Jorrvaskr, the doors were not on the side of the flipped-boat design, but at the pointed narrow end. Nord ships often did not have a clear stern and bow sections, specifically so that the ship could go in either direction with equal ease.  
  
Deathbell flowers grew in _absurd_ abundance around the Jarl’s longhouse, Mohamara noted as Durak led him inside. The inside of the wooden boat-house was filled with faded paintings on the walls and ceiling. Spirals featured heavily into the design, and the cat even found them in the stonework of the floor and bonfire at the center of the almost bare grand hall.  
  
Idgrod Ravencrone sat opposite the door, a dark-haired elderly Nord woman in fine raiment. Her eyes immediately locked onto Mohamara as he entered behind Durak and approached. The Jarl’s steward, a younger man by perhaps ten years, stood off to the side while the housecarl, a blond man in light armor, lurked among the gallery pillars.  
  
“Jarl Idgrod,” Durak started as they approached. “This is--”  
  
“I know.” The Jarl spoke with a wizened voice, solemn and mildly regretful. Her eyes still did not leave Mohamara. “I have known your face since my first visions, little one. It is a bad omen, for your arrival here means that I will soon pass into the next life.”  
  
The housecarl, perhaps taking his Jarl’s words to mean some form of threat, took up his iron mace and advanced on the Khajiit. However, Mohamara had learned how to dance around housecarls from flouting Elisif’s, and easily jumped over the man, and pushed him to stumble toward the fire as he passed.  
  
“Gorm, stop this nonsense. The boy is no undead monster in disguise.” The Jarl stood, to approach the Khajiit slower, more respectfully. “But the gods gave me the vision long ago, that I would know my death draws near by your arrival.”  
  
“Oh my,” Mohamara played the part of being incredibly bashful. “I’ve never been a death omen before, this is so unexpected. Oh man, I should have brought something more menacing than this old robe.” He feigned an epiphany and wove an illusion around his mouth to make it seem like his fangs were far larger. “How’s this? Menacing enough for a death omen?”  
  
The Jarl laughed, a coughing laugh that spoke of the same seriousness and unfun atmosphere Morthal had cultivated. “It is… strange. I had expected something different from you, after decades of looking to see you pass through my door.”  
  
“Jarl Idgrod gets visions from the gods,” Durak explained while Mohamara undid the illusion on his teeth. “It’s how she was able to get all the townsfolk who couldn’t fight out before the vampires attacked.”  
  
“Indeed. I suppose I should inform my death of what the situation is.” The Jarl looked over to her steward and exchanged a sorrowful look. “Husband, go wake our daughter. She will be Jarl perhaps before the sun rises, she must hear this too.”  
  
Mohamara looked at the Jarl through her sympathetic bonds. They were frayed and interconnected in bizarre ways, and there seemed to be several frayed bonds that thrashed around her. A moment of searching showed Mohamara other frayed bonds, leading out and away from the Jarl, but to what, he couldn’t discern without a ritual.  
  
The steward, Idgrod’s husband, left the hall and returned with a sleepy young woman, similarly dark-haired to Idgrod, but taller and broader in the shoulders. As soon as the young woman saw Mohamara, she ran to the Jarl.  
  
“Mother, no,” she pleaded. “Not now, I-I’m not ready to be Jarl. Joris still needs you, Morthal needs you.”  
  
“It very well might not be now, dear.” Idgrod tucked some of her daughter’s hair behind her ears for her but offered no smile. “But it will happen soon. We knew this day would come.”  
  
Mohamara was starting to realize that it wasn’t possible for him to be flippant or fun enough to work through Morthal’s problems with vampires on the loose. Especially if the situation was so bad that the town had been partially evacuated.  
  
The Jarl looked away from her daughter and began to explain the situation. “Some time ago, the Stormcloaks mustered an army up at Dawnstar and sent them down here from the north-east. They foolishly came through the swamp at night and woke something that had been buried. It butchered them and turned more than half of them into slaves, or vampires. Now they assault my city, coming every night to try and carry off my people for their supper.”  
  
“Have you tried eating _lots_ of garlic?” Mohamara offered to the disbelieving looks of everyone else. “Hey, it’s still a better idea than fighting off half an army of vampires and thralls. I assume asking for help is being made a non-option?”  
  
Durak spoke up. “The vampires attack everyone coming or going to Hjaalmarch. They hide out on the roads and ambush them once night falls--like the one that attacked you. Except these ones aren’t Volkihar. I’ve never seen this bloodline of vampires before.”  
  
“They burn in sunlight,” Idgrod added with a shrug. “But other than that, they pass perfectly for human. If you inflict a wound on them that isn’t magical, they can heal in moments, even regrowing their limbs if necessary.”  
  
“Wait one fucking second,” Mohamara pointed at Durak. “If they attack everyone entering or leaving Hjaalmarch, why did you tell me to leave?”  
  
“Because I knew the driver would take you to Snowhawk,” the Orc replied with a huff. “Isran’s at Snowhawk, keeping the non-combatants safe.”  
  
“For how much longer they will be safe, we don’t know.” Idgrod sighed and returned to her throne. “So, my dear death, what shall we do? What skills do you bring that Durak thought you could help us?”  
  
Mohamara wanted to say he was a Vessel for a powerful undead-hating Daedra, or that he had the ear of the Mad God, but both of those things were likely to get him killed. Durak being a Dawnguard likely meant Fort Dawnguard was in operation, and that was a place of Stendarr’s worship long before Meridians were invited in.  
  
So instead, he reached into his backpack and produced his slate. “I have this.”  
  
“And what will a drawing slate do for my people?”  
  
“It will allow us to call for help.” Mohamara activated the slate, while Durak and Idgrod’s daughter looked over his shoulder. “Burmice, call Yagraz.”  
  
The dialing animation played, and the call rang. And rang. And rang, until it was answered. “Hello?” It was not Yagraz’s voice that answered, but Lucia’s.  
  
“Oh hey, Lucia. Is your mom there?”  
  
“No, I’m sorry. She went out to clear out a Draugr crypt with the Companions and forgot her slate. Can I take a message?”  
  
Mohamara’s ears drooped as the situation became clearer. “Ah, yeah. Could you just tell her I called and needed some help? She wanted me to let her know that sort of thing.”  
  
“Okay. Was nice talking to you Uncle Moha, bye.”  
  
“Some help you called for,” Durak muttered when the call ended.  
  
“Is there someone else you can call?” Idgrod’s daughter asked like she was more desperate than Mohamara for something to go right. “Yagraz of the Companions would have been fantastic, but perhaps someone like General Tullius?”  
  
The tojay looked around, at the desperate or resigned expressions around, and sighed. “Burmice… call dad.” The display lit up with ‘Calling CHEESE4EVERY1’ for only a second before someone picked up.  
  
“Sonny!” Sheogorath’s voice came through the slate. Idgrod sat a little straighter in her throne from it. From the background noise, it sounded like Sheogorath was in a personal airship of some kind. “Good timing on your call, your mother and I were just going for a late night snack. See, she told me about these things called ‘cheeseburgers’ and I simply had to have them.”  
  
“Hey dad,” Mohamara made no attempt to mask how unhappy he was making the call. “I’m in sort of a pickle at the moment and--”  
  
“You’re what? Honey, our boy’s trapped in a sandwich topping!” A feminine but indistinct voice responded from somewhere in the background. “Well, I for one support our son’s endeavors to explore the sandwich layer of reality. There’s so much _opportunity_ there.”  
  
“Your dad’s insane,” Durak commented.  
  
“Why thank you! That’s such a nice thing to say.”  
  
“Is that, _Sheogorath_?” Idgrod hissed in a dangerous tone that caused the frayed sympathetic bonds around her to lash like whips.  
  
“Oh, you’re with Iggy! She’s not much fun but I think she’ll loosen up with your cute face to look at, son.”  
  
“Dad, please.” Mohamara cut back into the conversation. “I need help. There are vampires everywhere, and--”  
  
“See, I _told you_ you’d be popular with vampires, didn’t I tell him, Haskill? Haskill agrees with me.” The feminine voice from the background started up again, but Sheogorath cut her off. “Ni! Ni, ni, ni! If you wanted him to call you for help you should have given him your phone number! This one is mine. Now, son. I don’t mean to be mean, well actually I completely do, but I’ve helped you _a lot_ in recent times. And you went and lost me spear! Now your uncle Hircine has it, and he won’t give it back--going to be a right hassle to deal with. So if you want _any_ more help from me, we’re going to do this properly.”  
  
Mohamara frowned as he heard a burger wrapped opened from Sheogorath’s side of the call, and the unmistakable sound of eating. He hadn’t considered Sheogorath one of those people to eat on the phone.  
  
“You don’t _call_ for help, son.” Sheogorath said in his low, sort of menacing tone diminished a bit by food in his mouth. “You cry for help. So if you want anything from me, you’ll cry for help. Simple as that.”  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Mohamara said, monotone, to the slate.  
  
“Of course I can, I choose not to be. Now get those tears flowing, cause I know how weepy you can get when properly motivated. Don’t worry about doing it on the slate, I’ll hear you no matter where you are.” The feminine voice spoke again, indistinct but clearly agitated. “Alright, fine! Because your mother keeps threatening to steal the cheese off my burgers, she wants you to know she loves you. Toodles!”  
  
Mohamara sighed out his goodbye and ended the call. All around him, the Jarl’s household and the Dawnguard processed what had been said.  
  
“You’re Sheogorath’s offspring,” the Jarl said in an icy tone. “How strange, you look rather mortal for a Daedra.”  
  
The tojay shrugged. “Maybe I got a second puberty to look forward to or something. Either way, if you want Sheogorath’s help, we know how to get it now.”  
  
“I most certainly _do not_.” Idgrod huffed and shifted on her throne. “After the ‘help’ he gave to my youngest child, I would sooner let the vampires have me.”  
  
“Then we’re right back to square one,” Durak announced. “The vampires will be starting their hunt soon, so we gotta get out there to fight.”  
  
“Well, guess I should introduce myself,” the Khajiit said, defeated. “Mohamara, Fool of solitude. My Jarl sent me to offer enchanting services to your guards for free. I can get it done in an hour or so, but with vampires around….”  
  
“Enchanted weapons will help.” Durak nodded. “Magic weapons are about the best things we have against them, without Falion to deal the finishing blow.”  
  
“A local conjurer,” Idgrod explained, as Mohamara was visibly confused and looking around. “His atronachs have kept the vampires from overrunning Morthal with sheer numbers.”  
  
Mohamara stopped to consider the situation more. There was powerful magic in Hjaalmarch, almost as much as Winterhold, but it allegedly lay sleeping until the establishment of the Bromjunaar Academy. Perhaps he could supercharge himself and this conjurer by linking them to the hold’s magic?  
  
“Could you summon Falion, while you get some weapons for me to enchant, then? He and I can talk magic and maybe work up something.”  
  
\--  
  
Falion, as it turned out, was a Redguard. A proud race of warriors from the coastal province of Hammerfell, which would become the seat of the Empire as Mohamara knew it sixteen thousand years from the Fourth Era. Redguard culture hated most forms of magic, unlike Nordic culture which merely distrusted it, so Falion was an oddity on top of all the other oddities.  
  
“How strange, I’ve never seen a morpholith like this,” the conjurer whispered, as he examined Mohamara’s amulet  
  
Mohamara wove fire and undead bane into a pile of weapons for the Morthal guards to come in and grab. “It fills up, you drain it a little, then fills up again. Makes it really handy for field enchanting.”  
  
“Well, then it would have to be a sort of sigil stone, which could be useful for summoning higher tier atronachs. My sigil stone was stolen a week ago by the vampires.”  
  
“Well, my plan was to talk to you about tapping into the magic of Hjaalmarch itself.” Mohamara handed a battleax that heated the air around it to a Morthal guard who trotted out of Highmoon Hall, presumably to get onto patrol.  
  
“I thought the same, but it’s no use.” Falion shrugged and handed Mohamara his amulet back after some hesitation. “The magic in this land is asleep, whatever outlet it had before has long been snuffed out.”  
  
“Well, I have the benefit of foresight on this topic. No, not from Idgrod,” the tojay sighed when Falion glanced over to the Jarl and her family. “I know that a school of magic will one day be built here to tap into the magic. But… that’s about all I know.”  
  
“Well, I’m glad that that means that no matter what happens, Skyrim will not fall.” Falion scoffed. “And that the College of Winterhold will not be the only institution for people to learn from in this backward country.”  
  
“Anyone can learn from anybody, Falion,” Idgrod called from her throne. “And that can happen anywhere. It is all about keeping your ears and eyes open to the possibilities.”  
  
“I… yes, my Jarl. Not what I meant, but wise nonetheless.”  
  
“Well,” Mohamara started as the last iron ax was enchanted and set aside. “I’m a student of Mysticism, and one of Mysticism’s greatest strengths is doing purely magical repairs. And I’m noticing some frayed magical connections here, perhaps I can put them where they need to go?”  
  
Falion’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Wait--Mysticism? You? But… but how? No one has taught Mysticism since the Psijics left Tamriel. How did you even learn--?” He stopped and looked at Idgrod over his shoulder. “You knew about this, didn’t you?”  
  
“Do not take that tone with me, wizard,” snapped the Jarl. “I know only what it is important for me to know. More than most, admittedly, but not all. If the powers of the mystics are what the gods deem fit for my death omen, then that is what will save us. Get to it.”  
  
Falion sighed and crossed his arms. “Alright. What do we need?”  
  
Mohamara shrugged. “I’m only able to pick up that the connections are broken. I can plug them into who or whatever you want. But they’re broken by fraying, which means that they will pair better with the other end of the connection than an entirely new connection.” He gestured to Idgrod. “For instance, she’s got a couple frayed connections lashing about her all the time, that could be anything from phantom limb to an estranged family member. I can fix those connections, but it would be a lot easier to put them back where they belong.”  
  
“Well… Mysticism does deal with the true nature of things, according to Vivec.” Falion rubbed his chin. “Can you not… examine these bonds to find out where they belong?”  
  
The Khajiit nodded. “But it’s a really draining ritual, which would leave me blind for about a week. So you’d need another mystic to be here to repair the bonds afterward.”  
  
Idgrod stood and walked over to the talking mages with a curious look. “Could you perhaps tap into the insight I have from living in Morthal all my life? Or the visions I receive from the gods?”  
  
“The gods might not _like_ me tapping into them, but yeah. If you don’t mind being linked when it happens?”  
  
Idgrod nodded and sat down beside the cat near her bonfire. “You will link Falion as well, I trust him to act in the best interests of Morthal even if neither of us survives this.”  
  
“The risk of death is _minimal_ , Jarl Idgrod.” Mohamara had only heard about one sort-of-death from a Mysticism ritual. It just ended up converting the practitioner into a semi-omniscient field of magicka.  
  
“This is Skyrim, young cat, there is a risk of death in all that we do. Begin your ritual.”  
  
\--  
  
Three minds dove down into the sympathetic bonds of Morthal. Mohamara knew how to navigate the sort-of swimming state of mind with ease, but Falion and Idgrod flailed about before Mohamara’s bonds pulled them along.  
  
They gathered around one of the frayed bonds that went deep below and sang faintly of a familiar song. Falion’s knowledge pinged with the song and he identified it as a Dwemer bond. Hjaalmarch had once featured a Dwemer city that was no longer accessible. Thus the bond was left alone.  
  
While they worked, their link allowed knowledge to transfer between the three of them with the speed of thought. Brief glimpses into each other’s lives or complex ideas would spill over into each other, but they were not focused upon.  
  
The next frayed bond hummed with a voice Idgrod remembered. It was the bond she had with her sister, that had left Morthal years ago due to their shared gift. Where Idgrod could see the future, her sister could see the present.  
  
A third frayed bond was found and it thrummed with magic. The connection they had been looking for, found.  
  
Hostile parasitic bonds sprouting out of the frayed connection began to lash out at them. They brought along with flashes of men in scaled hide robes and metal masks. But Mohamara unwove the bonds when they attacked, and the hostile connections that had been leaching off the magic of Hjaalmarch were cut off.  
  
Idgrod examined the bond, and Mohamara tried to thread a connection between her visions and the bond itself, but the frayed bond rejected it. Instead, it tried to isolate Idgrod from Mohamara and Falion. One of Idgrod’s own frayed bonds bent around and linked with it.  
  
Mohamara’s alarm infected Falion and they tried to keep the magic bond from exploding Idgrod from too much power too fast. But Idgrod herself was serene.  
  
From their fighting against it, Mohamara and Falion picked up on a vision that Idgrod was having.  
  
A wheel that perspective shifted around to look upon from the side.  
  
But before the vision could complete itself, Falion and Mohamara were ejected from the space of sympathetic bonds by Idgrod’s new power.  
  
\--  
  
The Khajiit and the Redguard were propelled by some unseen force and struck opposite sides of the Jarl’s longhouse. Idgrod herself opened her eyes from the trance she had been in and stood up as her family began to fret about her.  
  
Idgrod turned to her husband and smiled, serene. And to her daughter, she gave a warm embrace. “You are Jarl of Hjaalmarch, now.”  
  
“Mother, no--”  
  
The now-former Jarl released her daughter and shook her head. “My vision has been clouded all my life. But now, at last, I see the truth. It does not redeem all the wickedness I have seen in my life, but I understand it better than I did before.” Idgrod’s serene smile became wicked. “Now, I am old and full of power. And what is power for, if not to be used, hmm?”  
  
She did not heed the words of her family as she stepped out of Highmoon Hall. The words of her citizens likewise did not sway her as she walked past the defensive line northward, into the swamp.  
  
The monsters that had lurked in her Hold all these years, some wearing familiar faces, were curious about why an old woman dared walk alone. They did nothing to her as she walked across water and muck with ease to find their master. He lurked in the ruins of a once mighty hall to the north of Morthal and presided over a grisly feasting table where he and his lieutenants drank deeply of lifeblood.  
  
“So, you came to perhaps plead for the gift, mortal Jarl?” The monstrous ancient vampire laughed. “Your visions of the future would be a useful feature in my court. But I think you will serve me well enough as a thrall.  
  
“You are mistaken,” Idgrod said. Her physical form began to vanish into dust, as she was less and less in the mortal world and more in the space beyond time. “I am here to tell you, you must leave Hjaalmarch at once or be destroyed.”  
  
“And who will destroy us if we don’t? One vampire hunter and your wretched village, we have spent these past few weeks isolating from the outside world?”  
  
Dawn was an hour away, the vampires knew that. Idgrod knew that. But the power of being old was the ability to believe a lie. And Idgrod believed her lie into the world. “No,” she said as she vanished like a ghost. “You will be destroyed… by daylight savings time.”  
  
“What trickery is--” The ancient vampire rose from his table only to see the sky brighten far, _far_ faster than it should have. All through the swamp, vampires were caught off guard as the sun crested the northern horizon sooner than it should have. Blood-crazed monsters dragging new victims toward their lairs, once valiant Stormcloaks turned into beasts, and the master vampire himself could only scream in horror as their flesh and bones burned to ash under the hateful light of the sun.  
  
An entire bloodline of vampires wiped out by one woman’s lie.  
  
\--  
  
“What do you mean you’re blind again, short-stuff?”  
  
Mohamara made a face he knew Yagraz couldn’t see as he bounced around in the carriage back to Solitude with the slate in his lap. “I had to do the Mysticism ritual thing again.”  
  
“Son of a--, fine. Okay. I’m sure there’s a story there.”  
  
“Yeah, and it ends with me being officially banished from Hjaalmarch despite the new Jarl admitting I didn’t do anything wrong.”  
  
“Malacath’s mangling hands, short-stuff, what did you do?”  
  
“The fuck if I know, she was sorta emotional because her mom died despite the court wizard and I doing literally everything we could to stop that.”  
  
“Well, are you going to be okay being blind in Solitude all on your own?”  
  
Mohamara made an ‘I don’t know’ sound. “Gotta take these things one step at a time. Ma’dran and his caravan are pretty nice so they’ll help me out. Probably treat me like an invalid for the whole time, though.”  
  
“Hate to tell you this, but being blind sorta does make you an invalid since you don’t get those fancy senses other Khajiit have.”  
  
“Look, it’s not my fault tojay apparently hunt everything through sight.”  
  
“It’s definitely your fault if you _keep blinding yourself_ ,” Yagraz shouted something at Brenuin away from her micro-slate before coming back to the call. “So are you going to get in trouble with Elisif over this?”  
  
Mohamara laid down in the carriage while his tail trashed from annoyance. “I don’t know--maybe? Idgrod’s daughter, who is also named Idgrod which is really weird, she gave me a letter for Elisif and told me to get out of her Hold.”  
  
“If Elisif fires you, you can always come live with me.”  
  
“That’s assuming she doesn’t have me made into a King Olaf effigy for the next burning.”  
  
“Well, the moral here is to leave the heroics to professional heroes. You can’t keep making yourself blind to rescue every little village from destruction, you know. We still on to clear out Volskygge in a couple weeks?”  
  
Mohamara sighed and made an affirmative noise. “Going to be less fun if my vision doesn’t come back by then.”  
  
“It’s okay, I can describe to you all the ways the Draugr are dying.”  
  
“But it’s not the _same_.”  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chim chimney, chim chimneny, chim CHIM cher-ee.


	25. Fool me Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A change in current occupation!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what's weirder. That literally everyone in the Legion has to wear those leather skirts, or that they have them in Mohamara's size.

  
\---  
**Chapter 25:Fool me Once**  
  
The carriage stopped at the base of the hill up to Solitude’s gates. Or rather, where the gates had been. When Mohamara had left, they were just starting to get wood and iron replacements into position until new metal doors could be manufactured. He’d made the trip up to the city enough times to do it blindly, so once he’d wished the carriage driver a good day, Mohamara was trotting up the hill without a care in the world.  
  
And then he ran into someone.  
  
“Oh, sorry, didn’t see you there,” the tojay started, then jumped high to hopefully land beyond them and keep going on his way. However, whoever he’d run into was a bit miffed as they grabbed him by the ankle as he lept over them. This left the Khajiit hanging upside down, where his focus was on keeping his robes from getting in his face due to gravity. “Hey, what gives?”  
  
“You are cordially invited,” a female High Elf’s voice said in a perfectly polite tone, “to the Thalmor Embassy.”  
  
Right away, Mohamara started to thrash about while the, presumed, Thalmor and her escorts started back down the road.  
  
“There is no _need_ to be so excited, First Emissary Elenwen has been looking forward to talking with you for _so long_ , she won’t care overmuch that you are… fresh from work.”  
  
“I am a citizen of the Tamrielic Empire,” Mohamara said as he tried to think of ways to get out of the vice grip holding him up that didn’t involve attacking Thalmor officers. The embassy had filed a complaint about Yagraz assaulting one of their Justicars, but it was excused due to the Potema situation going on at the time. But Elisif had to assure the Thalmor that their operatives were clear to act within the confines of the White-Gold Concordat in Haafingar without fear of reprisal. “I am a member of the Jarl’s court, not a worshipper of Talos, you have no legal right to hold me against my will.”  
  
“Oh dear, I’m dreadfully sorry.” The Thalmor didn’t sound sorry at all, she sounded like she was enjoying having the cat flail around in a panic. “You aren’t under arrest, my friend. But we have to _insist_ you come with us to talk business. Did you not receive the First Emissary’s letter?”  
  
“I’ve been in Hjaalmarch for days, there was a crisis--your courier was probably attacked by the enemy.” The Khajiit gave up trying to fight for freedom and keep gravity from resulting in a wardrobe malfunction. “Can you at least hold me some different way? The blood is starting to rush to my head.”  
  
“Well, if you insist.” The Thalmor snapped her fingers, and Mohamara found an armored gauntlet grab him by the scruff of his neck, then lift him upward while his leg was released. Because Mohamara had been consistently losing weight since arriving in the Fourth Era, they could have just carried him around like that.  
  
Instead, they affixed a clamp to his scruff and carried him around like a sack of potatoes thrown over the shoulder of one of his captors. “I will get my vengeance upon you for this,” Mohamara swore in the loudest tone he could manage while scruffed, a whisper.  
  
“That’s not even the first time I’ve heard that today, so you’re welcome to try, _Fool_.”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara passed the time by whistling, which he knew _viscerally_ annoyed the Thalmor effectively kidnapping him by the way they audibly ground their teeth and twitched when he went into particularly shrill notes.  
  
While scruffed, there wasn’t much he could do to escape but pray to Meridia for help in his mind. However, once he was free he’d have to try and escape. There wasn’t much he could _do_ while blind.  
  
Unless of course, he could fix the blindness. Being scruffed didn’t mess with his magical abilities, just forced his body to go limp, so he began to feel around for sympathetic bonds. It was pretty easy to find the ones that connected his eyes to his brain, they coiled around the optic nerves. Since it was the eyes themselves that were damaged, he’d just need to find something else that he could ‘see’.  
  
Those garnets on his court robes would be perfect if he had thought to get them. As would the lens on his slate, in his backpack, where it couldn’t see anything. So he took the most unpleasant, and most viable option at the moment, and linked himself to the eyes of one of his captors.  
  
The golden-armored soldier recoiled and rubbed at his eyes as if sand had gotten in them. His pace slowed considerably before the stinging pain faded and he could catch up to the Justicar and her other escort.  
  
Through his eyes, Mohamara could see that they were about to turn onto the road that led up Mount Kilkreath. It was… bizarre seeing through the High Elf’s eyes--colors did not seem the same. Blues and greens were dulled compared to what Mohamara remembered, while yellows, whites, and oranges were far more noticeable.  
  
‘Okay, step one of escape plan done. Learn the location.’ Mohamara’s plans went on in his head around desperate prayers for help.  
  
Step two was to figure out the bonds linking the instinctive limpness in his limbs to a patch of loose skin on the back of his neck and work around them. This proved difficult, as he could not tell the bonds apart easily. Modifying the self was the single most difficult thing to do in Mysticism, because of how easily it could backfire.  
  
Which Mohamara found out the hard way when he tugged on a sympathetic bond connecting the nerves in his neck to his spine and developed a stabbing pain in his chest instantly, which grew into a burning pain after a few seconds. What he didn’t know was that he had accidentally stopped his heart from beating with the blunder.  
  
Meanwhile, in the mind of a Madman, Meridia was packing up to leave for her Colored Rooms when she felt a disturbance. She accessed the beacon and found several archived prayers from her boy and an emergency notification that his heart had stopped beating seconds before. “Sheogorath,” she shouted out into the misty air.  
  
“What!” Was the Mad God’s reply.  
  
“I blame you for this.” She deduced that all the stress from Sheogorath’s activities had damaged the boy’s heart muscle, to the point of failure. So she reached through the beacon, through his amulet, and into his chest to burn away the old heart and replace it with a brand new one. She’d have to talk to her Knight about _that_ too.  
  
“I don’t know what you’re blaming me for, but I probably did it at some point!”  
  
Back on the slopes of Mount Kilkreath, Mohamara had found it difficult to breathe for a good long while. Combined with his limp limbs, he seriously thought he was going to die on some High Elf’s shoulder. But suddenly, his heart started beating again, and he found he could breathe easier.  
  
The tojay weakly coughed as his lungs were able to take in the missing air, which caused the Thalmor to glance back at him.  
  
“Fortunately for you, you won’t be here long enough for the thin air to do you ill,” she commented, smug in both tone and expression.  
  
“This is kidnapping,” the Khajiit whisper-yelled. “Violating the White-Gold Concordat.”  
  
“You know, you keep talking and all I hear out of your mouth is ‘please make me into a towel, Zenolene.’ Perhaps you’d be best served by _being quiet_.”  
  
His only way out, Mohamara decided, was to bolt as soon as the clamp was off. The literal second it was released, he needed to be running. Through his captor’s eyes, he saw the relatively flat surface of Mount Kilkreath’s top come into view, and on it stood a both well placed and horribly placed building.  
  
It was a compound built in the style of Solitude, with a two-floored main building within a fenced in territory, and a smaller building standing among a snowy garden. The compound was well-placed in that it was directly above Solitude. If the Thalmor ever needed a vector to attack the city, they had it in this building.  
  
But it was horribly placed in a way that Mohamara decided to comment on. “You know, if Mount Kilkreath ever erupts, your embassy is kinda fucked twelve ways to Sundas.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous,” the Thalmor Justicar, Zenolene, scoffed. “This mountain has been dormant since the First Era. Barring the recent earthquake, there has been no volcanic activity for almost a thousand years. And even if it were, the Dominion can slave even mountains to our needs.”  
  
“Wow, all that talking and you didn’t in any way refute the idea that if it _does_ erupt you’re hosed.”  
  
The Justicar whirled on Mohamara, which was weird to watch from the perspective of his impromptu mount, and glowered. “Wait, how can you tell where we are? You’re blind.”  
  
Mohamara saw a hoodless Thalmor woman standing just in the doorway to the main building. High Elf eyes were good for seeing long distance clearly, almost as much as tojay eyes. Perhaps that was why they favored archery? “Walk down from Solitude for like, half an hour then go upward and walk on snow. Hmm, wherever could you be? Oh, it’s so incredibly likely that we’re at _fucking Fort Hraggstad_.”  
  
Zenolene yanked on Mohamara’s ears and covered her hands with a layer of frost to make it hurt from two sources. “Mind your tongue, or being made into a towel will be a _kindness_ compared to what I--”  
  
“Zenolene,” the Thalmor woman at the door spoke. She didn’t raise her voice or change her expression from bored disinterest, but there was a weight to her voice that froze the Justicar and her escorts mid-step. “Are you _assaulting_ my guest?”  
  
Mohamara couldn’t help but smirk while the Justicar forced herself to release his ears and step away. “No, First Emissary.” The High Elf through which Mohamara watched the scene glanced at the Justicar, who was clearly forcing herself not to scowl. “Just… trying to impress upon it the importance of etiquette while in your exalted company.”  
  
“It? Really?” Mohamara feigned a pout.  
  
“Commendable,” the First Emissary said, before gesturing the Justicar’s escort to come forward. “But not what your duties entailed. Do as you are told in the future.”  
  
The High Elf carrying Mohamara approached the First Emissary and was followed after her into the building. It looked almost as if it had originally been a Solitude property, the decor so reminiscent of the bard’s college.  
  
“I’m sorry that such measures were necessary to arrange this meeting, Mr. Ahramani.”  
  
It chilled Mohamara to the bone that she knew his last name, and he recommitted to bolting as soon as the clamp was removed.  
  
“But our business is rather pressing, and you are surprisingly difficult to get ahold of. First an errand to Whiterun, and then Morthal. If we had waited any longer, I daresay where you would have gone.”  
  
“I am a citizen of the Tamrielic Empire,” Mohamara whispered as loud as he could given the situation. “Seizing me like this is when I am not a Talos worshipper is a violation--”  
  
“Actually, I think you will find that I’m well within my rights under article five of the White-Gold Concordat, as this matter affects the safety of the Embassy itself. Ah, here we go.” The First Emissary briskly opened a door to a lavish office and ushered the armored High Elf inside.  
  
Mohamara’s bond with the man’s eyes frayed and broke after the High Elf deposited him in a chair and walked away. It seemed that visual bonds required proximity to work, but it had been Mohamara’s first such artificial bond, perhaps practice would work it out.  
  
He realized as nothing seemed to happen for a long time, that to be paralyzed like this without the ability to see or to realistically call for help was terrifying. Almost as terrifying as having Sheogorath trying to crush him to death. Almost as terrifying as whales.  
  
“I’m tempted to let you stay like this throughout our meeting,” the First Emissary said with just an edge of malice to her voice. She had been able to silently move around to sit behind the desk. Her chair hadn’t even made a sound when she sat down. “At least until we have your signature, anyway. Because I know the second that clamp comes off, you’re going to foolishly attempt escape.”  
  
“Wouldn’t you, in my position?”  
  
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’m not in your situation so I can’t truly say how I would react.” The only noise she made to convey movement was the creak of her leather gloves. “Just as I’m sure you would have a different response to my situation. Context is everything, Mr. Ahramani.”  
  
“I don’t think we’ve been officially introduced, First Emissary…?”  
  
“Elenwen, First Emissary of the Thalmor in Skyrim, Ambassador to the Aldmeri Dominion. And you are Mohamara Ahramani, Fool of Solitude, among other… interesting things.”  
  
“I’m sure none of them are interesting enough to warrant this level of… coercion for a meeting.”  
  
“Normally, I would agree, but you’ve put me in an _uncomfortable_ situation.”  
  
“Is it because I’m cute? I’ve been told I’m cute.”  
  
Though he couldn’t see it, Elenwen glared at her open door where several of her female employes had come by to stop and stare into her office at the tojay. They were fortunate that Elenwen refused to break her routine to reprimand them, as they went and brought many other staffers to look at the most adorable Khajiit most had ever seen.  
  
“I’m afraid that it’s something else entirely, Mr. Ahramani. You recently purchased Mount Kilkreath from the Jarl of Solitude. My embassy rests atop Mount Kilkreath. While the land was unclaimed Haafingar territory, my personnel could come and go as they wished. But due to your purchase, you own the roads we make use of to resupply this facility and fulfill our obligations per the White-Gold Concordat. Technically speaking, my people cannot leave this facility without trespassing on your property.”  
  
“If I give you permission to come and go on the roads will you let me go?”  
  
One of the staffers now loitering outside Elenwen’s office was her head torturer. He eyed the Khajiit with a… disturbing expression, even for Elenwen’s tastes. “You think you’re a prisoner?”  
  
“Well, your man in Markarth did try to kidnap me too. I never got his name, but he left bruises on my shoulder from where he attempted and failed to kidnap me.” Mohamara was babbling, really. He couldn’t panic in the usual way, being scruffed suppressed his heart rate too much. Thus, the tremendous amount of stress he felt combined with the inability to do anything but talk meant it became his outlet for relieving the stress.  
  
“Ah, that reminds me. We have something of yours to return.” Elenwen stood from her desk, silent as the grave due to her muffling of sound and walked authoritatively toward the crowd that had formed. Like rats fleeing a sinking ship, they fled before her as she left. But when she was gone they took their places looking at the tojay.  
  
“You think we can pet him before she gets back?”  
  
“Not if we keep talking about it.”  
  
“I wouldn’t mind getting my hands on those ears….”  
  
“Okay _you_ watch for her, while we all make a break for it. On three.”  
  
Mohamara heard their conversation and tried to prepare himself for the attack. But it was so much worse than he expected. Twenty or so High Elf blood purists rushed into the office to pet him, and squabble amongst themselves for the prime petting spots.  
  
“Sometimes I hate being cute,” he muttered.  
  
“She’s coming back!”  
  
And as quickly as they had appeared, they bolted from the office. Moments later, Elenwen returned, though the blind Khajiit couldn’t pick up on this. She casually laid a neatly folded and laundered red and white hooded robe on the cat’s lap as she passed by him to her desk. “My ‘man in Markarth’ brought this to us when you escaped his… chat. It seemed appropriate enough a time to return it. Now, let’s talk business, shall we?”  
  
The agreement reached by the First Emissary and the Fool amounted to The Thalmor would have unrestricted access to the road up and down Mount Kilkreath, and retained the right to veto any construction that happened near the summit. And in return, Elenwen would clear up the ‘tragic mistake’ about Mohamara being a fugitive from the Dominion. If he’d really been born in Skyrim, he wasn’t subject to Dominion authority, tojay or no.  
  
Elenwen treated the situation like a purely business transaction, even though it was a purely word of mouth agreement. “I will be sending a document to Falk Firebeard for you to sign officiating this agreement,” she had said as the clamp came off and Mohamara was allowed to walk out of her embassy. “But take heed--the next time the Thalmor send for you, _you will come_. Or we will have to do this again.”  
  
He was escorted as far as the main gate to the compound, and then shoved into the snow outside, to find his own way back down the mountain.  
  
\--  
  
Walking down a mountain blind was not the most fun thing Mohamara had ever done. But he was able to follow the sympathetic bond between Elisif and the letter meant for her down the mountain and then in the general direction of Solitude. Of course, he had many instances of falling into deep snow, walking into a bush, or a black eagle daring to try and attack.  
  
Haafingar was warmer than most parts of Skyrim, but when walking for an hour and a half in clothes soaked from melted snow, it was no surprise that Mohamara was causing locals to ‘ooh’ and ‘aww’ with his sneezes by the time he got back to Solitude. Once inside the city, his better than average hearing and memory of the city’s layout was enough to get him to the Blue Palace.  
  
The tojay ended up walking into furniture that he was _certain_ was not there when he last was in the Palace, so he had a minor limp when he finally ascended the stairs to the throne room.  
  
He’d entered in the middle of Thane Erikur, the greediest, laziest, most perverse sonuvabitch that Mohamara had ever met, and Melaran’s former employer. Apparently, the Nord had just come back from negotiating a business deal with Falkreath for premium lumber for the reconstruction effort.  
  
All fine and dandy, even if the man was unpleasant he was competent. Mohamara felt his way to the gallery pillars and leaned on one to start healing his bruised shins and knee. He stopped when he remembered: He could have linked his eyes to his slate and simply walked back to Solitude in a much more efficient manner.  
  
“Is there a reason you look like you’re drying off after a swim?” Falk was apparently sitting close to where Mohamara had entered the gallery and startled the cat.  
  
“Just… just fell in some snow on the way here,” the cat offered in lieu of explanation. “I got a letter from the new Jarl of Hjaalmarch for Elisif.”  
  
“Excuse me, I don’t think I quite heard that right. _New_ Jarl?”  
  
Mohamara took off his backpack and fished around inside for the letter before handing it over. “Yeah, things went pear-shaped in Morthal.”  
  
First, Falk read the letter, and then he quickly stood and handed the letter off to Elisif when Erikur’s pontificating was completed. “So,” the young Jarl said with an air of regret. “Idgrod Ravencrone is dead. And Morthal was under siege by vampires. That are now also dead. But you completed the task asked of you, Fool, and are banished from Hjaalmarch for no less than one year’s time.”  
  
“In my defense.” Mohamara stepped out of the gallery pillars and pointed in his Jarl’s direction. “I only did what Idgrod asked me to do.”  
  
“Yes, the letter mentions that as well. This is… I did not think things could get worse for us, after the dragon attack. But we nearly lost an entire Hold to the undead. We _would_ have lost an entire Hold had I not sent you.”  
  
The Khajiit shrugged. “I only did a fancy ritual that backfired and helped kill two vampires.”  
  
“You also sacrificed your well-being and still did the task I asked of you. While it was a bittersweet outcome, I can’t think of a better way to mark the end of your service as Fool of Solitude.”  
  
Ah, so he was going to be fired anyway. The tojay couldn’t stop his ears, whiskers, and tail from drooping at the news. It has always been a temporary position, but it had been a job, at least.  
  
“Oh, um. I didn’t mean to--I’m sorry, that was poorly worded of me. Please stop looking so sad.” Elisif stumbled over her words, presumably at how Mohamara looked. “I was actually going to lead into an offer to make you a Thane of my Hold. You do own a considerable amount of land now, and you’ve done me and my Hold repeated service.”  
  
“Oh. Um. That’s… I don’t know what to say.” Mohamara was gobsmacked by the offer. Thanes were the highest level of nobility in a Hold, able to ignore some of the laws that bound the lesser nobility and commoners. In the event of a Jarl dying with no heirs, the new Jarl would be determined from among the Thanes.  
  
“Ultimately, it doesn’t matter.” A gruff voice from the gallery, opposite where Mohamara had been, spoke out. General Tullius, the Military Governor of Skyrim, and commander of all Imperial forces. “Since you are no longer Fool of Solitude, I hereby conscript you into the Imperial Legion, Khajiit.”  
  
There was commotion from the gallery, with Elisif, Falk, and her Thanes crying different forms of outrage. Mohamara was certain that Erikur was only doing it because everyone else was.  
  
“With enchanting talents like his, he’ll be invaluable to resolving this war while resources are plenty, Elisif. And once he’s served the Empire, he can return and be a petty noble in your court as much as you like.”  
  
“You could have informed me before this, General,” Elisif hissed. She seemed just barely in control of her anger going from voice alone. “Instead you undermined my authority--in my Palace!”  
  
“What was it you said when you sent an official complaint to the Emperor regarding mistakes made regarding your court? That you aren’t obligated to inform me of your court appointments? Likewise, I’m not obligated to inform you of my conscriptions.” There was a noticeable air of spite in the General’s rebuttal to Elisif.  
  
“I don’t know how to feel over regional and Imperial governments arguing over who gets to boss me around and make fancy stuff for them,” the cat commented while no one paid him any mind. “Should I be… flattered? Annoyed? Vindicated? Mostly, I think I want to take a nap.” However, he gave the topic more thought and pointed dramatically in the General’s direction. “Wait a minute, does this mean I have to wear those stupid leather skirts all your soldiers prance around in?”  
  
“That is the _uniform_ of the _Imperial Legion_. And yes, even conscripts like you are expected to--”  
  
The moment Mohamara heard the word ‘yes’, he was running and jumped from the balcony of the throne room to the foyer below. Unfortunately, someone downstairs had the presence of mind to catch him around the chest and hold him arm’s length away while the cat flailed about.  
  
“Believe it or not, this isn’t a rare thing with conscriptions,” the man who had caught him spoke in a Falkreath-accented voice. “I’m Hadvar, and I’ll be the Quaestor looking after you. Though I imagine the General is going to want to have words with you in a minute.”  
  
Mohamara eventually gave up on trying to get away and slumped in defeat. “I was _just_ starting to get used to wearing trousers again….”  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cat who had no future and no career prospects is violently attacked by multiple career prospects. Results may shock you.


	26. Mage, Thief, Warrior

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Triad complete.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Tamriel, tinnitus is actually caused by Sheogorath dancing on your eardrums. You should feel honored to hear that ringing.

  
\---  
**Chapter 26: Mage, Thief, Warrior**  
  
Mohamara’s tail never stopped thrashing as he was carried out of the Blue Palace and to Proudspire Manor by Hadvar, his new ‘minder’. The man was pleasant, upbeat, and empathetic to Mohamara’s position, but also firm in his position of authority over the cat.  
  
“My job is mostly to track your performance, among other things,” he explained as the caravan kept their distance. “I’ll be managing your salary on your behalf--don’t worry, the position comes with a fiduciary duty. We’ll need to talk about what items you can or can’t enchant so I can organize with other Quaestors to get those things to you as necessary.”  
  
“Okay,” Mohamara sighed. “Assume I don’t know what a Quaestor is.”  
  
“Oh, we’re revenue and resource officers. We manage the Legion’s money, make sure everyone gets paid. But we also oversee mines, and subcontract local smiths to make arms and armor.”  
  
“And mind conscripts?”  
  
“‘Well,” Hadvar laughed good-naturedly. “This is a special case.” The Nord Legionnaire carried Mohamara up to the front door of the Manor and knocked. Before his fist hit the wood a second time, the door opened and Ma’dran loomed in the doorway like a horror picture monster.  
  
“Why is a Legion Officer carrying ja’khajiit around?” Ma’dran looked at the Nord, and then Mohamara, whereupon he noticed that the tojay’s eyes were totally white. The jaguar-man’s eyes were as slits when he met Hadvar’s again, and his voice barely above a snarl. “Why is ja’khajiit blinded?”  
  
Ma’dran’s rolling growl acted as a signal for the caravan to move. The gates of the manor were closed, and the caravan guards began to close in the Legionnaire.  
  
“I did some magic, Ma’dran” the tojay quickly answered in light of Ma’dran’s voice. “The blindness is just a side-effect of the spell backfiring. And this guy’s carrying me around because….”  
  
When the tojay was hesitant to talk about it, Hadvar cheerfully stood straighter and answered for him. “Your friend has been conscripted into the Imperial Legion. We’re here to collect his effects and relocate to Castle Dour.”  
  
Ma’dran stared at the cheerful Nord for a long moment before he released the doorframe and stood aside. Hadvar briefly acknowledged the cracks in the stone where Ma’dran had been gripping it but continued indoors without commenting.  
  
However once Mohamara had guided him to the tojay’s room, the Nord set the Khajiit down, closed the door behind them, and started gasping for air. “If you hadn’t said anything they were going to murder me,” he said, his cheer replaced with horror. “Shor’s bones, the big one could break stone with his bare hands.”  
  
“Ma’dran’s not even the biggest cathay-raht in the caravan,” the tojay told Hadvar with a wicked cat-smile. “Kessei’s nine and a half feet tall, and he sells maps.” Kessei was also the oldest cathay-raht and relied on a walking stick since he had a bad leg. The way the big cat had described it, he got the leg injury from wrestling with a mammoth--his mammoth tusk walking stick lent the story weight.  
  
Hadvar didn’t respond with words--instead, he just let out his breath as a shaky hiss as he gradually pressed his face into the door. This proved to be a bad thing, as the door opened suddenly. The Legionnaire found himself stumbling to stay standing while a lightly armored cathay woman arched her brow at him.  
  
“Baskets,” she said and offered several wicker baskets stacked in each other with their lids to Hadvar. “Ma’dran asked this one to help ja’khajiit pack.”  
  
“Hey Ahnji,” Mohamara greeted as he felt around the room for his stuff.  
  
With Hadvar holding the baskets, Ahnji pushed past him and entered the room. She picked the blind Khajiit up and set him on the bed. “Ja’khajiit, let this one find things. You fold what Khajiit gives you, and put in baskets.”  
  
Mohamara stuck his tongue out at the cathay but didn’t resist. The last thing he wanted was to damage Ma’dran’s furniture because he couldn’t see where anything was.  
  
“Young one,” the cathay woman asked in ta’agra. “The Nord does not lie? You are conscripted into Legion?”  
  
“Yes,” Mohamara responded after engaging his Tongues spell. “The Legion cannot win its war on its own, so it steals Khajiit to win it for them.”  
  
“You do not have to go along with it.” She laid a pile of clothes next to Mohamara to fold and basket once Hadvar placed some down. “The caravan can spirit you off to Ahkari’s route, in Stormcloak lands.”  
  
“No, no. They just want me for my enchanting, I’m probably not going to be made to fight their battles.”  
  
Hadvar stood awkwardly in the doorway while the two Khajiit talked. He noted how the conscript didn’t speak the Khajiit language with the same smoothness, grace, or speed that the cathay woman did.  
  
“They will pay you? See to your health?”  
  
“Let me ask.” Mohamara switched to Tamrielic to talk to Hadvar. “Hey, you said you’d monitor my salary for me?”  
  
“Manage,” the Nord corrected. “I invest your salary in safe companies, set up accounts in various banks so if one institution is destroyed in the war it won’t see you destitute, and write letters of credit on your behalf to buy things.”  
  
“... So I don’t actually get to see any of the money the Legion is paying me?” Both Khajiit lowered their ears, neither happy with the cup game being described.  
  
“Well, we don’t actually _have_ the gold in Skyrim, you see. The current war chest was donated by Imperial civilians, so the gold to back up the credit exists, but it’s in Cyrodiil. Oh, but you probably want to know how much your salary will be.”  
  
The entire time, lurking in the shadows at the end of the hall where there were no windows to let light in was Ma’dran. He watched the Nord who had come into his home and was stealing away a great money maker. But when he heard the sum that the Legionnaire quoted, he had to duck around the corner to squeal in delight as Hadvar turned to investigate the noise.  
  
Mohamara was frozen, holding a half-folded shirt while his tail fluffed out in alarm. “You’re lying,” he said, automatically. “There’s no way in Ashpit that they’d have that much to pay.”  
  
“Well, bear in mind that it’s your department’s budget, your salary is still to be determined,” Hadvar admitted when he couldn’t find the source of the faint squealing. Perhaps the house had mice? “That’s just the maximum amount you have available for supplies, hirelings, and your own wages before I have to request additional funding from the General. But, honestly, if you can give us the same quality you gave the Solitude city guard, you’ll earn a substantial wage.”  
  
“No, there’s literally no way they’d have that much,” Mohamara began to realize as he thought about it. “Everything I’ve heard about the Imperial Province says that it’s in chaos right now, and with Skyrim as it is--even if Imperial citizens could donate enough money to afford to give a _conscript_ that much, it should have been appropriated by the Legion forces in Cyrodiil to help get that province back under control. None of this makes sense!”  
  
“Well,” Sheogorath said as he patted the tojay on the head. “Acceptance is a good first step.”  
  
Mohamara’s reaction to the sudden arrival of the Mad God was completely understandable. To leap straight up and catch onto the rafters in the ceiling.  
  
“Gah! Ja’khajiit, come down from there!” Ahnji set aside the clothes she was gathering up to try and jump up to catch Mohamara’s dangling legs. “You, Nord! Stop staring like a fool and find ladder! Or get cathay-raht to help.”  
  
Hadvar had been stunned by _how high_ the cat could jump, but hurriedly walked off at the cathay’s hissed orders.  
  
“You know, this is getting a bit predictable,” Sheogorath commented while floating gently up to Mohamara’s level. “But it really helps with my ‘main antagonistic force’ thing if I can just pop up, anytime, anywhere, and mess with you.” With frivolous disregard, the Mad God kept on floating upward and became a cloud of purple and orange mist with his face floating at the center. “It’s been a while since we talked, incredibly handsome Daedric Prince to ungrateful mortal.”  
  
The Mad God’s mist form snaked into the Khajiit’s head through his ears, orange and purple mist entering in from opposite sides. It was such a powerfully disturbing feeling that the tojay released his hold on the rafter and fell after a second of staying aloft in defiance of gravity.  
  
Ahnji caught him easily and set him down then shouted that the ladder wasn’t needed just as Hadvar returned with a stool.  
  
“So I’m going to just sit on your eardrum for a bit while you do whatever it is ungrateful mortals do when they’re not appreciating all that their parents do for them.” The Daedra’s voice came in as clearly as if he was standing beside him. “Ooh, I haven’t done the old tinnitus jig for a while, let’s see if my hips are still up to it.”  
  
Suddenly Mohamara’s ears were filled with a persistent ringing as the tall-legged people went back to their routines.  
  
“Still got it! Oh man, I miss having the free time to just find some random mortal and dance on their ear-drums for a decade or so. But anyway, your mother and I are still working on the specific wedding plans--the groom said his family’s input wasn’t necessary, which was really a shame. We could have had four-way arguments over napkins! Or better yet, which of you two was totally undeserving of the other.”  
  
“When we get to Castle Dour, is it okay if I take a nap or something?” Mohamara asked Hadvar as he put a bag full of petty soul gems in a basket, alongside several rolls of paper.  
  
“You know, I probably should tell you a bit about your groom at some point. I bet you’re just dying from antici--”  
  
“Oh, I don’t think so, sorry,” Hadvar admitted. “First thing’s first, we need to get you to the registrar, then there’s the delousing and medical exam. And after that, the General will want to talk to you about some of the obligations expected of you, the length of your conscription, and issue first orders. My money’s on you being assigned to Whiterun or Falkreath.”  
  
“Delousing--is that a cat and fleas thing?” The tojay thrashed his tail around in annoyance. “I had an implant put in under my skin specifically so I never get fleas.”  
  
“Standard procedure, I’m afraid. But hey, at least you aren’t required to go through basic training! ...I think.”  
  
“Ugh,” Mohamara fell forward into the folded up blood-stained quilt he was putting into a basket. “This has been an annoying day. Still not as bad as the Thalmor meeting I had this morning or that time I was almost eaten by whales, though.”  
  
“Wait. Thalmor, this morning? Eaten by whales? And what in Oblivion is that?” Hadvar’s face was set in ever-increasing levels of confusion as he parsed what Mohamara said and then saw Ahnji take Meridia’s beacon and put it in the last basket.  
  
“Oh yeah, I probably should have mentioned the Thalmor to Elisif. Or to Ma’dran. Or to Yagraz.” The tojay buried his head in the quilt. “I need a vacation from this vacation, so I can remember what normal is and let people know when abnormal things happen.”  
  
“Hold on a minute--Yagraz of the Companions? You _know_ her?”  
  
“You know what--I’m going to get a cat-nap until we’re at Castle Dour because this is a bit too much to deal with.” Mohamara picked up the quilt, adjusted the clothes underneath, then stepped into the basket, curled up, and dropped the quilt on top of himself. Ahnji put the basket lid on it and then stacked the baskets so Mohamara was at the bottom.  
  
“I… didn’t think he could fit in one of these,” the Nord admitted.  
  
“Ja’khajiit can fit into many small places,” the cathay woman said with a shrug. “Makes for entertaining hide and seek.”  
  
\--  
  
General Seneca Tullius arrived in his personal quarters in Castle Dour and automatically went for the pitcher of wine kept near his desk. The scout reports were not good--the Stormcloaks had garrisoned Japhet’s Folly after the previous occupants, a pirate gang calling themselves the ‘Blood Horkers’ had been wiped out. Legate Telendas from the Winterhold fortified camp reported that a concerning number of the Blood Horker’s ships could be salvaged--and with lumber from the Rift and Eastmarch, they would be salvaged too soon for the General’s liking.  
  
Legate Rikke’s prediction was proving to be frighteningly correct.  
  
So the General drank, to calm his nerves so that he could think of a way to counter this development. And he drank to pretend that the smug fool that had gotten him into the predicament was sitting in his reading chair.  
  
“I ought to have you clapped in irons,” Tullius growled out and sipped the Firebrand wine. “Breaking into a secure _Legion_ fortress, aiding and abetting a rebel cause, becoming a glorified cutpurse--have I left anything out?”  
  
His son rose from the low chair next to what passed for a personal library in Skyrim--two bookcases of three layers each made of rough, unpolished wood--and positively strutted over to the General.  
  
“Well there’s a few more things, but those are small-time matters, undeserving of my infamy.” The General’s son plucked the wine goblet from his father’s hand and set it down. “If it helps, I come bearing presents.” An envelope with the wax seal of Eastmarch was laid atop the goblet, along with a rolled up piece of parchment.  
  
For the first time in years, Tullius looked at his son. The Rift had been good for him--the young man was more hale and hearty than when the General had seen him at the Arcane University. Certainly, the man didn’t dress as a member of the Thieves Guild, in the yellow robes of an apprentice wizard. The style of Winterhold, Tullius noted. But remade in silks rather than coarse wool. Naturally.  
  
“I didn’t trap them if that’s what you’re worried about.” The former upstanding citizen of the Empire waved off his father’s glare and stepped back.  
  
“That only makes me suspect a trap even _more_....” The General in Tullius told him to call for soldiers and arrest the man that had been his son. But then he remembered why he’d attempted to get his son into the Shadow Legion--the boy could call up ludicrous levels of Destruction magic. It would just lead to more dead soldiers and more need for Tullius to drink.  
  
He opened the roll of parchment first and found it to be a map of Stormcloak territory. Supply lines, the General realized at once, from the Rift to Eastmarch and from Eastmarch to Japhet’s Folly off the coast of Winterhold. Lumber yards and mines were highlighted. And once there proved to be no obvious trap, the General switched over to the letter.  
  
“This can’t be right.” The letter detailed the muster of forces at the Valtheim Towers, at the border of Eastmarch and Whiterun. “Ulfric just lost over two thousand men at Morthal, he can’t possibly have enough to launch a second attack so soon.”  
  
“Well--my associates did consider forging something for you to use to get Whiterun’s Jarl to let you move troops through his land. But then we found out that lovely bit of information when cleaning out another Guild.”  
  
“...How did you know what the letter says if the wax seal was intact?” The General looked over his shoulder at his son, who rolled his eyes in response. “I swear if you say ‘magic’ I will--”  
  
“Alteration magic has creative applications, it turns out. I should have listened to you and studied more of it at school. Fortunately, there are books for that sort of thing.” The younger Tullius’ smug look only deepened as the General folded the Stormcloak orders back up and set them aside. “Has that money ‘generous Imperial citizens’ donated helped you out?”  
  
“A year ago you didn’t care one lick who won this war,” Tullius picked up his goblet again and drank deeply from it. “And now you’re bending over backward to help the Empire win--what gives?”  
  
“Well, I don’t know if you picked up on this….” The mage actually grinned at the General and polished his fingernails on his silk robes. “But I’m getting married soon. And I’m afraid that the future in-laws were insistent on you and mother attending.” He shrugged when the elder Tullius gave him a disbelieving look. “Hey, I had that same reaction.”  
  
“You’re helping the war effort… so that I can _attend a wedding_.” The General decided he was not _at all_ drunk enough for this and refilled his goblet immediately. “That is the most asinine, the most flippant--”  
  
“But also the most entertaining reason, methinks. If my betrothed is half as interesting as his father, I will have a most enjoyable marriage. Though I’ve been told that some… work will be involved on that front.”  
  
Tullius could almost _feel_ the scowl on his son’s face as the word ‘work’ was spoken. “Gods forbid you can’t shirk or, given your new profession, steal your way to success. Have you met this, I’m going to play it safe and guess, Khajiit you’re to be marrying? Are you going to have to have gods-damned _Thalmor_ at this wedding?”  
  
“Not yet, no. But I’ve been told he lives in Solitude so I thought I’d pop in and let him see what his father paid for in a husband.”  
  
“Solitude?” Tullius’ mind immediately went to the few Khajiit he knew in Solitude. He guessed the safest option--the jaguar-man in charge of the local caravan. “Ma’dran? Who buys and sells weapons?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh, heavens no. Ma’dran and I have a _business_ relationship already. My prize is a rarer breed of Khajiit than a cathay-raht. The only one in all Tamriel not leashed by the Thalmor, as it so happens.”  
  
The General made a note that the caravan leader had ties to the Thieves Guild--that’s where they would look when Legion material wound up stolen, as it inevitably would. But then the comment about the Thalmor made him pause mid-sip. There weren’t many breeds of Khajiit that the Thalmor regulated in any capacity--there were over twenty of them, and most were interchangeable in terms of effectiveness. Off the top of his head, he could only think of senche, ohmes, pahmar, tojay--  
  
Tullius was overcome by a hacking cough as he sharply inhaled his wine, to the point where he had to bend over from the force and frequency.  
  
“And that sounds like my cue to leave. Was nice seeing you father, enjoy the presents and the money I oh-so-generously gave you for your war. I’ll see you at Riften, ciao.”  
  
\--  
  
“On a scale of one to ten, how stupid do I look?”  
  
Hadvar didn’t quite get what magic was being used to allow his charge to communicate vast distances through what appeared to be a rectangular mirror. But what he did know was that in the mirror was the visage of _Yagraz of the Companions_ , presumably at home. The Khajiit was seated on a table while Hadvar and the Legion Quartermaster adjusted straps on the cat’s leather armor. Due to his blindness, it was unlikely the Khajiit would be able to dress himself past the initial red tunic.  
  
“You look like a tomboy who still wants to go to the ball, in all honesty,” the mirror image of Yagraz said while in the background a drunken Redguard man desperately tried to open a sealed jar containing some strange variety of peanut.  
  
“That isn’t what I asked, but thank you for making me feel like a ten out of ten.”  
  
“How in the shit are you _still_ losing weight, anyway? Or are you just shedding a lot? I don’t think I should be able to see your neck in that much definition.”  
  
“The medical officer says he has a parasite in his intestines,” Hadvar volunteered, leaping at the opportunity to talk to one of the greatest warriors of the Era.  
  
“Yeah,” Mohamara confirmed with a nod. “The Alchemist here is going to be getting me a potion that’ll kill it, and then I should be able to start putting on weight again.”  
  
“I recommend a steady diet of sweetrolls and snowberry tarts.” The scene on Yagraz’s end changed as she got up and went to open the jar for her Redguard friend. “Malacath’s many wives, Brenuin, stop drinking so much that you can’t even get the beer ‘nuts.”  
  
“You ain’t my mother,” the Redguard slurred, “don’t you tell me what to do.”  
  
“Your mother is a kind and gentle soul who is incapable of thinking poorly of anyone,” Mohamara informed the Redguard. Said Redguard lept at the looking glass on Yagraz’s end and ended up spilling the ‘beer nuts’ everywhere.  
  
“Damnit short-stuff, now I gotta find the broom.”  
  
The last bit of impromptu belting to get the armor down to the Khajiit’s size was done, so the Quartermaster nodded to Hadvar and left the supply room. The Quaestor understood--dealing with the conscript’s eccentricities was already proving to be exhausting after one day.   
  
“You really need to train your drunk better, Yagraz,” the Khajiit muttered once Hadvar signaled him to hop off the table. Next was their meeting with the General, and find out their assignment. Somehow, with his magical looking glass out it was almost like the tojay could see again. But not quite--he had trouble discerning distance, for instance.  
  
Hadvar only had to lead the way, and pretend not to listen in on the Khajiit and Orc talking. They spoke they had been lifelong friends! But, how would a Khajiit who couldn’t even look after himself have a legendary warrior as a friend?  
  
“So did I tell you that Heimskr is here? In Whiterun.”  
  
The tojay’s blind eyes went wide. “Heimskr? _The_ Heimskr? Hi-hi-Heim-skr, preacher of the Talos Church? The guy from the song?”  
  
“Yeah! He lives just down the way from Jorrvaskr, next time you’re in Whiterun I’ll take you to one of his sermons, it’s _trippy_.”  
  
In peacetime, the suite they approached would be the Legate’s quarters. But then, in peacetime, there would not be multiple Legates in Skyrim to begin with or a General. So currently, the suite was occupied by General Tullius. Hadvar stopped before the door while Mohamara and Yagraz continued to talk about this Heimskr fellow. He instructed Mohamara to stay while the Quaestor went in to ensure the General’s secretary knew of their appointment.  
  
It was unusual to receive orders from the General’s quarters, but given the limited number of conscripts, there was no established office space for their command structure yet. As Hadvar talked with the Bosmer secretary, the General’s previous appointment passed by--an Imperial man in mage’s robes, like from the College of Winterhold but _clearly_ not built for the cold. Something about the man seemed familiar to Hadvar, but he didn’t want to pry.  
  
“Yagraz, I gotta go,” Mohamara said while his ears went flat against his head. “Have to talk to my new boss soon.”  
  
“Short-stuff, before you go, some advice? The Legion are good people. I don’t know about the Empire, but the Legion are good, honest people. Trust them to help you help yourself, alright? Seeya.”  
  
Mohamara muttered his own goodbye and ended the looking glass session. “Trust the people that conscripted me instead of _asking_ for help, she says.”  
  
Through the forward facing lens on his slate, Mohamara watched a strange Imperial man in yellow silk clothes step out of the room Hadvar had just entered, glance down at the tojay, and then double-take. Mohamara could _feel_ the magicka in the stranger’s bones, so he had to be a powerful mage. But the most noteworthy thing about the man was his choice of facial hair: A soul-patch.  
  
“Well, fancy running into you here,” the mage said with peculiar enthusiasm. “Though you look much thinner than in your portrait, and you weren’t blind. That’s a rather important bit to have gotten wrong.”  
  
The tojay briefly wondered if this was how people felt to deal with _him_ and squinted at the Imperial. “Do I know you?”  
  
“Well, I’d hope so or this would be far more awkward than amusing.” When Mohamara didn’t react, the mage’s charming smile faded just a smidge. “I’m Marcurio Tullius, has… your father not told you about me?”  
  
“My father objects to telling me things,” Mohamara said, voice flat. “It’s against his religion.”  
  
“Ha! I know how that feels. So, since you have been told nothing, let me be the one to let the cat out of the bag.” The Imperial didn’t react to Mohamara’s scowl at his casual racism, but bent down and offered his hand to shake.  
  
But when Mohamara reciprocated the gesture, the Imperial twisted the cat’s hand to kiss the offered limb.  
  
Weirded out beyond _all_ reason, Mohamara naturally tried to yank his hand away but the Imperial, Marcurio, did not let go. “Marcurio Tullius, son of General Seneca Tullius, mage extraordinaire, handsome rogue, and per the marriage contract with your father, your fiance. Lovely to meet you, dear.”  
  
Despite being partially blind, Mohamara’s only reaction after that was to blink rapidly. “I… what?” The tojay repeated the word ‘what’ in increasing volumes, which seemed to amuse Marcurio, per his facial expression.  
  
_”-pation!”_  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder how many of you I surprised by going this route, and how many saw it coming from the literal moment I mentioned the Rift.


	27. A Daedra's Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first Daedric Quest begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes exploding is the right thing to do. Most often however, doing so in the military is not.

  
\---  
  
 **Chapter 27: A Daedra’s Best Friend**  
  
Mohamara was stuck in a loop of ‘what’ until Marcurio found a way to break the tojay out of the feedback loop: Chin scratches. “You certainly _look_ blind,” the Imperial commented. “But you’re reacting as if you can see me. How is that?”  
  
“‘S temporary,” the tojay purr-talked around the chin scratches. “Magic helps me see.”  
  
“Ah, a mage. You’re likely part of the Shadow Legion, then?” Mercurio shifted his scratching to cheek rubs with both hands. This didn’t debilitate Mohamara as much as chin scratches did, so the Khajiit kept trying to get away while his face turned pink.  
  
“No-no, I don’t know what the Shadow Legion is. I--please stop that.”  
  
“As you wish.” And so Marcurio switched to the tojay’s massive ears. They were flat against his head so Marcurio experienced some difficulty but eventually coaxed them into relaxing outward.  
  
The cat’s brain was occupied with trying to find a way _out_ of the situation. The slate’s lens could only stare forward, into Marcurio’s torso, so it was no use. Running backward with eyesight would be difficult but possible. And then there was the possibility of jumping up and over Marcurio and finding refuge in the General’s suite--but that was uncertain. While running the numbers on escape routes, the tojay tried making himself smaller by holding his slate closer to his chest and pulling his neck back.  
  
Given that the cat could only speak in incoherent stammers, Marcurio did most of the talking from then on. “Legion leathers are not flattering on you, so you know. Personally, I’m of a mind that it should be silks or nothing.” The human circled around the cat while messing with his ears--it was obvious that the cat was looking for a direction to bolt. Being mobile himself would limit what directions the Khajiit could go. “It’s so bizarre, seeing a tojay without the fancy fur dying that they usually do--not unpleasant, however.”  
  
Mohamara decided on a direction to run and tensed to sprint when the ear attack stopped and the assault on Mohamara’s tail began which ruined his escape plan.  
  
“I don’t imagine that you’ve had many opportunities to properly look after yourself given the circumstances. Shame, really. But I have a proposal for you.” Marcurio leaned in and whispered into the tojay’s ear. “I’ll get you something to help out in this department if you agree to meet somewhere and let us get to know one another. Sound fair?”  
  
There were so many ways to interpret that sentence that Mohamara’s brain hit the emergency shutdown button. As this happened, the cat’s fur stood on end and small trails of smoke rose up from his ears.  
  
“Oh, sorry ‘bout that,” Sheogorath’s voice said from within his head. “Just grilling some earwax.”  
  
“I’m going to guess that your mind went to a different place than mine, and that’s okay. But I’d really just like to talk. How about after you hear where my father is going to be sending you, hmm? Don’t worry, I’ll find out.” The Imperial stood with a self-satisfied grin and left the tojay to his own devices.  
  
When Hadvar came out to fetch the Khajiit, he found a cat puffed up more than should have been reasonable given the temperature, and faintly smelling of burning wax. “I’m guessing you and the mage got into a disagreement or something? It’s okay, that it didn’t come to blows between you two speaks volumes on your characters,” Hadvar commented, blissfully unaware of the situation, and ushered the still rebooting Khajiit into the General’s suite. “The General wants to see us.”  
  
“Ooh,” Sheogorath commented in between chewing on something. “First you meet the hubby-to-be, and now your future father-in-law! I should record this, and show it to your uncles when we get together for mortal pinata night.”  
  
Hadvar didn’t pick up on the tension in the room when Mohamara entered the General’s office. The Nibenese man glowered at the cat, who had his head bowed the whole time. The Nord didn’t notice anything odd, General Tullius glowered at everyone. Annoyance seemed to be the Military Governor’s default emotion.  
  
“Certain factors have come to my attention over the last few hours,” the General started, voice level. “Dragons, long thought extinct, have been sighted rising from their graves. They’ve attacked Imperials, Stormcloaks, civilians, livestock, and more. Some have taken to roosting on mountains. Farengar Secret-Fire of Whiterun says you’re the most knowledgeable person about dragon lore that he’s ever met.” Tullius leaned forward in his exquisite leather chair to look at Hadvar and Mohamara with a weak glare. “So I’m going to want you to talk to a scribe, you’ll tell them everything you told that court wizard. Prioritize how to kill them, if you would be so kind.”  
  
“My professional advice,” Mohamara responded in barely above a whisper, “is to--”  
  
“Speak up, conscript, I can barely hear you.”  
  
The tojay cleared his throat and tried again, only to be instructed to raise his voice again. And again. And again. When the General was satisfied with Mohamara’s volume, it was just a hair below a shout. “My professional advice, General! Is to routinely hire Yagraz gro-Dushnik of the Companions to kill the dragon for you! She is Dragonborn!”  
  
“She is Dragonborn…?”  
  
It took the cat a moment to parse what the General was asking with a peculiar trailing off inflection. “She is Dragonborn, sir.”  
  
Tullius accepted the due respect with a nod and opened a folder on his desk. “Initial conscription lengths are for a year’s time during wartime, so you know. Time will be added or removed in reflection of your service, however, if the war ends before your conscription period concludes, you will be discharged back to the civilian population.” Several parchments were handed to Hadvar rather than the tojay.  
  
The General steepled his fingers and sat back. “As a conscript, you do not hold official rank in the Legion, you are not entitled to a pension at the end of your service. If you choose to enlist after your conscription period, the time as a conscript will be used to determine your rank and deployment. Your time with the Legion will be as great or as unpleasant as you make of it. Serve your Emperor with valor, and rejoice in work well done.”  
  
“...Sir?” Hadvar asked after a long moment of silence in the room. “Our marching orders?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh, they’re likely still with Legate Rikke. Quaestor, go retrieve them if you would. The conscript can stay here.” The General watched Hadvar leave, and once he was gone shifted his gaze to the tojay. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out, Khajiit?”  
  
Mohamara gulped, and held his slate closer to his chest but said nothing.  
  
“So. How did this happen? Hmm, did Ma’dran introduce you two? Whilst my son was selling his ill-gotten plunder? Was that what you were really trying to accomplish by entering into Elisif’s service--giving the Thieves Guild a stronger presence in Haafingar?” The tojay’s silence seemed to incense the General, but his voice never rose beyond its initial level tone.  
  
“I… assume you’re talking about Marcurio,” Mohamara said at last.  
  
“Why no, I’m talking about your relationship with Mara, of whom everyone in Markarth tells me you’re a priest. Of course, I’m talking about Marcurio.” The General stood, and Mohamara visibly flinched. As the Nibenese man walked around to stand at the tojay’s flank, Mohamara put the slate up like he was trying to shield himself from some attack. “Oh, you’re afraid of me now, that’s a marked improvement. So how about you tell me _how this came to be_?”  
  
“I-i just met Marcurio like, five minutes ago.” Fear motivated the tojay to speak rapidly, so as to hopefully get the information out that the General wanted to hear. “I didn’t even know who he was before that.”  
  
“You cannot possibly expect me to believe that. This is only going to get _worse_ for you if you continue to lie to me, son… in-law.”  
  
“I’m not lying! It’s an arranged marriage thing, I had no input on the decision!”  
  
“Now that’s not true at all, sonny,” Sheogorath commented from the Khajiit’s ears. “You gave me some criteria, such as ‘no spousal abuse’, and I went ahead and nixed most of the fun categories. Though your uncle Sanguine convinced me to add some back on because some people like those things! Who knew?”  
  
“An… arranged marriage? Alright, fine. Arranged marriages are all tit-for-tat, so how about you tell me what _my family_ is supposed to do for our side of the marriage?” The General began to pace while glaring down at the Khajiit every so often. “Your family paid an obscene level of gold for the match--enough to fund this war and beyond. Was there some implicit agreement to retake Elsweyr from the Dominion in this? Perhaps accept more Khajiit refugees? You must have _some_ idea.”  
  
“You’re asking the wrong person--I don’t know!”  
  
“Could always ask you, know,” Sheogorath quipped. “Though the answer may upset you more than its absence. Ooh, I should get the upset-o-meter down here so we can put it on a graph! And make a pie from the graph! A pie graph!”  
  
“Useless,” the General muttered then returned to his chair. “Then how about you tell me how to contact your family so I can get answers from someone who does have the answers I want?”  
  
“Tell him to click his heels three times and say ‘there’s no place like home’. Go on! I want to see if he’ll really do it.”  
  
Something inside Mohamara fractured under all the stress over the past twenty-four hours. A mouse backed into a corner enough will bite back, and the same was true of non-combat Khajiit.  
  
Outside Castle Dour, birds flew away in alarm, soldiers and guards training in the courtyard paused to look up toward the General’s tower in awe, the people in the temple of the divines couldn’t help but feel they’d heard it before, and for the people in the General’s tower it was rather like a flash-bang bomb had gone off. But those would not be invented for many Eras hence.  
  
Mohamara let loose a flow of cursing, venting, inarticulate screaming, and pointed criticism at the General, at Sheogorath, and every single thing under the sun that he couldn’t stand about the day’s proceedings. That sympathetic bonds lashed around him like a cloud of whips, connecting to people and assaulting their perceptions of reality then disconnecting as this happened only worsened the explosion of rage and frustration.  
  
Marcurio looked up from examining wicker baskets full of his fiance’s possessions to appreciate a new, and interesting side of his betrothed. “Glad it’s happening to you, and not me, dad,” he commented and went back to rifling around. He happened upon some burnout velvet smallclothes inlaid with real garnets, which gave him pause. “Hmm… velvet and garnets. I can work with that.”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara hadn’t considered attacking people with Mysticism before he exploded all over General Tullius. Connecting people to unpleasant stimuli was something he’d picked up over the course but actually, purposefully, attacking someone was new. It sort of worked similar to the Illusion school, but Mohamara didn’t know enough about Illusion magic to discern the difference.  
  
Perhaps there wasn’t one, and all the divisions in magic lay in people’s preconceptions--the strength of their delusions altered the way magic worked artificially. He’d read a book about that, once.  
  
He had a lot of time to think about it while mopping the Castle Dour courtyard in the rain, and walking laps on the city wall before it was time to depart. Gossip was that the Legion had gotten word of a pending Stormcloak attack on Whiterun, so the surrounding Holds had their troop deployments increased. This coincided with Mohamara’s marching orders--he was part of a double-cohort heading south to Falkreath, specifically the town of Helgen.  
  
Once his vision returned, it was right back to work. Over the course of the week it took to even get to Falkreath’s forested borders, Mohamara enchanted every sword, shield, and bow in that double-cohort with a paralysis effect, kinetic dampening, and lightning damage respectively. He didn’t even need to make them particularly powerful enchantments, just match the quality of the Solitude city guards.  
  
But not with Hadvar’s gear. That stuff, the tojay took _time_ on. Hadvar’s sword was overlaid with a complex network of not immediately noticeable enchantments. Keen edge to remain sharper for longer without needing the whetstone. Rust-proof so that the weather wasn’t something to worry about. Domineering to invoke inordinate levels of fear in his enemies. And frictionless so that the blade could be swung ever so slightly faster than should have been possible. On top of the paralysis effect.  
  
Many soldiers asked Mohamara why Hadvar’s gear got so much better quality work, and the answer never seemed to satisfy them.  
  
Because Hadvar had _asked_ him to, rather than demanded as others had. The Nord had given Mohamara the option to say ‘no’, and have that refusal respected. And for that, Hadvar got the best quality enchantment that Mohamara could put together short of drawing on the beacon.  
  
The shield and bow hadn’t been done by the time they crossed into Falkreath Hold, but every day they drew closer to completion. The Armaments of Hadvar, Mohamara was going to name the set once they were done.  
  
Hadvar hadn’t stopped grinning like an idiot since they crossed into Falkreath Hold, Mohamara noticed while forming a knot of deflection for Hadvar’s shield. “If you keep smiling like that, your face will stick that way,” he told the Nord. Because he was working, he had the luxury of riding in a wagon while Hadvar had to walk with the other soldiers.  
  
“And I would not mind in the least,” Hadvar replied, and breathed deeply of the pine forest air. “Falkreath is my home, I’m sure you could tell from my accent. And Helgen is my hometown. I can’t wait to see everyone again.” He looked up to the Khajiit with a curious expression. “If you don’t mind my asking--where are you from? You have a strange mix of a Haafingar and Whiterun accent, so I’d suspect Rorikstead?”  
  
That reminded Mohamara, he needed to stop by there to inform the faithful old Breton that ‘Maria’ had come home. “Heh. No. I was born… I don’t know where exactly. But I was brought to the temple on Mount Kilkreath to be raised, and pawned off on a few foster families that ultimately decided they didn’t want me.”  
  
“Mount Kilkreath? There was a _temple_ up there? Certainly out of the way, I’d guess.” Hadvar seemed hesitant to bring up the topic of the foster families, perhaps the notion hadn’t existed this far back in time? “What’s the temple like?”  
  
Mohamara shrugged. “Well… does it matter? There isn’t one there anymore.”  
  
“Of course it matters, it was your home.” Hadvar looked stricken that Mohamara had thought differently. “Would it help if I tell you about Helgen?” When Mohamara nodded, the Quaestor started off describing their destination. A fortified town, built during the Akaviri invasion, and most fortified structure in all Falkreath Hold since Ilinalta’s Deep was abandoned. Hadvar told him about how he’d almost been snatched by a Hagraven as a child, for there was a witches coven that lived high on the mountain pass to the Rift. And he told more pleasant stories, about how he had introduced his old friend from Riverwood to his younger sister because they were too bashful to talk to each other, or how the innkeeper made special mead with juniper berries.  
  
“So?” Hadvar had a strange sparkle in his eyes when he finished talking about Helgen. “Will you tell me about the temple on Mount Kilkreath? Even if it isn’t there anymore?”  
  
The tojay bit the common soul-thread he had been spinning into Hadvar’s, completed a knot, and set it aside. “Living in the temple, there was always music,” the cat started. “After a while, you stopped noticing, but if you left and came back it was obvious. Someone, somewhere, was always singing a hymn. All the windows were of stained glass, and each told a story. The holy men and women who looked after us would tell us the story behind each one as we grew up. Every saint, every champion, every prophet. There was _magic_ in them, I knew but no one believed me--they would move if you stared at them long enough. You could blink and miss it, but it happened all the same.”  
  
Reflecting on his time in the temple pained Mohamara. It was like when he had broken his thigh and had to spend weeks relearning to walk--pain that worked itself out by being fought against.  
  
“There was _so much history_ , I lived and learned there but I couldn’t tell you all the stories, all the sermons. The Lady’s statue was so big, you could climb up and see what felt like forever. I used to get in trouble because I would climb up all the way to her head, and couldn’t get back down.”  
  
But then came the foster families. Then would come school. Then would come being told that ‘no school in their right mind would hire a teacher shorter than the students’. Mohamara did not discuss these things with Havar, however. Nor did he discuss the lost history of the original temple--made such because he wasn’t good enough.  
  
“But that was the temple. And it isn’t there now.”  
  
The sparkle remained in Hadvar’s eyes, despite his pitying expression. “I’m sorry.”  
  
“Me too.”  
  
\--  
  
A dog barking immediately roused Mohamara from sleep the night before the convoy was to arrive in Helgen. The Khajiit instinctively lept from his bedroll to the top of a wagon--and just in time. A wolfhound stood on its back legs, with its front legs on the wheel while it barked up at the cat. Said cat spat-hissed at the canine to try and get it to go away.  
  
“Where in Oblivion did this dog come from,” a First Class Centurion muttered as she approached the mystery canine.  
  
“Hey! Listen, I know your pops and I don’t get along, but I need your help.”  
  
Mohamara couldn’t place the source of the echoing voice that suddenly came into his head, but not the same place as Sheogorath’s spot on his eardrums. Speaking of whom.  
  
“Oh, no you don’t!” Sheogorath made his continued presence known. “You will _not_ help that dog, not one bit!”  
  
The tojay squinted at the canine, who whined pitifully at him even as the Centurion tried to shoo him away.  
  
“Come on, can’t ya do your uncle Barbas a favor? I can promise to pay you back.”  
  
“Son, listen me, no don’t listen to me, _listen_. Under no circumstance are you to help that dog, do you understand?”  
  
The name drop let Mohamara know who and what the dog was. Barbas, faithful hound of Clavicus Vile, Daedric Prince of bargains, wishes, and being a sack of penises for no good reason. Barbas represented more than half of Vile’s power, and also his externalized moral guidelines, and was frequently a target for Sheogorath’s divine ‘pranks’.  
  
“Will helping you out piss off Sheogorath?” Mohamara asked the dog, which confused the Centurion to no end.  
  
“Probably,” Barbas’ mind voice commented.  
  
 _”Son.”_  
  
“Alright, I’m in, what do you need?”  
  
The dog barked, happy as a wolfhound should be. “Thanks! I didn’t know who else to ask for help. Clavicus and I got into a fight again, and he kicked me out.”  
  
“Play therapist to a Daedric Prince. Slightly terrifying, but hey, if it annoys Sheogorath half as much as he’s annoyed me, I’m down for it.”  
  
“Swell! Oh, and then there’s all the vampires Clavicus sent after you with the promise that if they sacrifice you at his shrine, he’ll cure their disease.” The dog barked happily once more.  
  
Mohamara’s spite-filled glee melted into dawning horror. “What.”  
  
“Yeah, and I’m pretty sure they followed me here.”  
  
 _”What.”_  
  
“And this is why,” Sheogorath said, popping into Mohamara’s eye like it was a video feed he’d edited himself into, “we don’t help dogs in this family.” As quickly as he’d come, the Mad God was gone again.  
  
“Okay, vampires.” The tojay say up from his coiled position in the cart and went looking for his armor and one of the alarm horns. “That’s not good. Anyone seen the alarm horn?”  
  
“I think I found one down here!” Said a voice from the opposite side of the cart. In a Morrowind accent. When there were no Dunmer in the entire double-cohort.  
  
“... I was born at night, but it wasn’t _tonight_ , not falling for that.” The tojay gathered sunlight in his hands and glared in the direction of the voice. “Come on out and let’s get this over with.”  
  
The reply he got was a pair of Dunmer hands breaking through the wagon floor and grabbing Mohamara by his ankles. Whereupon he found himself subjected to a rather shocking degree of lightning magic which tore through his magicka with ease.  
  
Slightly singed, Mohamara watched the head fall off the Centurion’s body and fell backward onto the wagon, twitching. The Dunmer hands released him and broke through the rest of the wagon floor. In moments, the cat’s vision was filled with monstrous faces and golden eyes.  
  
“Don’t worry kid,” Barbas said while he barked. “I’ll help ya out!” There was a flare of magic and a dog’s pained whine along with a thud a moment later. “Okay, as it turns out one of them knows Paralyze. Go figure. At least they won’t kill you until they get you to Clavicus’ shrine. Gives ya a chance to make a grand escape.”  
  
“Take off its arms,” one of the vampires said, “so that it cannot do the sunlight spell. And we do not need to stun it constantly on the way to the shrine.”  
  
“Ya know what, I’m just gonna stop talking.”  
  
“Excuse me, but may I offer some advice on plotting to maim someone?”  
  
Mohamara did not like any of these possibilities, but the vampires seemed certainly pleased with it and looked around for which of their number had offered the advice. None seemed to own up to it, though.  
  
“Advice number one, don’t think you can do so in the midst of a military camp just because you killed one officer. Advice number two, definitely don’t do it in a camp where every archer has a magic bow, you utter morons. Fire at will.”  
  
There was a moment of sublime beauty as the vampires occupying the tojay’s vision were set upon by many lightning-imbued arrows.  
  
The partial paralysis from being electrocuted wore off moments later, letting Mohamara sit up to find himself in the middle of many piles of ash, and a waking Imperial camp due to the sounds of battle.  
  
“You know, I was going to stay hidden among all these soldiers until you hit Helgen and make it look like I had been there for days waiting on you to catch up,” Marcurio said as he strutted up to the wagon where Mohamara sat. “But then there was that thing with the talking dog, and the vampires, and I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to rescue you at the perfect moment.”  
  
The tojay looked over the scene once more and blankly stared at his fiance who gave him the most shit-eating grin he’d ever seen on a human face. “Was it necessary to wait until after they made me look stupid, electrocuted me, and were about to cut my arms off?”  
  
“It was absolutely _vital_. Would have been a wasted effort without it.”  
  
“So uh,” Barbas reminded everyone of his continued existence, paralyzed in the pose of a brave lunge. “Could you do that dispelling thing to get me out of this? I got an itch in my ear that really needs scratchin’.”  
  
\---   


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cue the sitcom music!


	28. Real Cats are Pink!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara becomes a Daedric therapist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can believe in something that's not real until it becomes real are you mad or just ahead of the curve?

  
\---  
**Chapter 28: Real Cats are Pink!**  
  
With the vampire’s attack on the camp, the remaining Centurions decided that the campsite wasn’t secure, and ordered the troops to awaken to resume the march. The fallen Centurion’s body was placed in a wagon to be processed once they arrived in Helgen.  
  
And of course, Mohamara had a dog barking at him and Marcurio tormenting the cat the whole way.  
  
Despite his barking, Barbas did not speak unless spoken too first after telling Mohamara where to go to talk to Clavicus--a cave called Haemar’s Shame. Marcurio, however, was not so passive.  
  
“You know, for an enchanter of your skill it’s a bit strange that almost none of your gear is enchanted,” the Imperial commented while laying down in Mohamara’s mobile workstation wagon. “Not even defensively. And the only weapon I’ve seen you carry around is a dagger you hardly know how to use at all.”  
  
Mohamara purposefully flicked his tail to get into the Imperial’s face. “Priorities,” he growled. “Getting the guys who will do the fighting ready takes precedence over my stuff.”  
  
“Says who?” Marcurio caught the tojay’s tail and held it fast while it tried to flick around. “You, Quaestor, is it part of the conscription process that you have to put yourself last in priorities?”  
  
Stiff-voiced as he looked at Marcurio, Hadvar replied: “No. I’m sure it’s appreciated, but looking after your own well-being would likely result in less need for… heroics, or people dying for preventable reasons.”  
  
“There, you see? You’re only making their job harder for them.” The Imperial started to pet Mohamara’s tail while he talked. Perhaps it was meant to be a mollifying gesture, but Mohamara found it annoying as the man wouldn’t _let go_ of his tail. “Perhaps something to resist magic? Improve your health, so on and so forth.”  
  
Mohamara reached back and yanked his tail away from the Imperial by hand since neither the tail-petting or holding it was going to stop. “Why do you care? According to your dad, you already got the dowry or whatever from my side.” The Khajiit whirled around and pointed into Marcurio’s face. “And don’t go around introducing me as your ‘bride’ or some stupid shit like that or I will kill you in your sleep.”  
  
Marcurio arched a brow at the tojay, then was distracted by the finger being pointed at him. His usual smug grin began to melt. “Why don’t you have claws?”  
  
“Wait,” Hadvar said, confused. “You don’t have claws? I thought you just didn’t know how to use them in a fight or something.”  
  
“I’ve been declawed for most of my life.” The cat sighed and went back to enchanting Hadvar’s shield. “But back to my question--why do you care? You got the money, you could kill me and not have to do all this.”  
  
With his back to the man, Mohamara didn’t notice how Marcurio’s expression darkened almost immediately after the word ‘declawed’ was spoken. The Imperial took a deep breath and his normal amusement returned. “One, I’m not a black widow--but thank you for thinking I could pull that lifestyle off, it means a lot. Two, even if I wanted to kill you to get out of my obligations--which I don’t--I’m not so good that I can kill my way out of the middle of a double-cohort.”  
  
“Thank you for your kind words, _citizen_ ,” Hadvar ground out with a glare in Marcurio’s direction.  
  
“You’re welcome. And three….” Marcurio sat up and leaned over Mohamara to look him in the eyes. “And I need you to pay attention to this part, I know _who_ and _what_ your parents are. They both already went through the usual threats of violence if I so much as raise a hand to your adorable face. While your mother was the more _honest_ about it being a threat, your father was more… intimidating, honestly.”  
  
“So, I’m going to guess that the two of you are an item? Or going to be?” Barbas spoke up, still trotting along with the wagon, and showing no tiredness. “Oh that’s sweet, I’ll be sure to have Clavicus get ya a wedding present or something for helping us out.”  
  
“I think the marching is getting to me,” Hadvar grumbled and rubbed at his eyes. “I could swear that dog just talked.”  
  
Mohamara shied away from having the Imperial looming over him and hunched over Hadvar’s shield to keep working on it. “Hey, why don’t you tell us more about what sorta help Clavicus needs, eh uncle Barbas?”  
  
“I didn’t think it was such a big deal at the time,” the dog Daedra lamented. “Clavicus was in a bad way since one of his Daedric artifacts… well, things with it went horribly wrong. And then this old flame of his does this big romantic gesture, for him.” The dog pranced around as it walked. “Oh, that cheered him up good an’ proper. And I wanted Clavicus to go see if, you know, they could hook up again or somethin’. But uh, Clavicus… he just becomes an anxious mess when romance is involved, ya know? We got into an argument, and he kicked me out. That’s the short version.”  
  
“I don’t know how to feel about the Daedric Prince of Bargains’ ability to experience anxiety,” Marcurio said with a befuddled expression. “Or what constitutes an ‘old flame’ for a being that literally lives outside linear time.”  
  
“Oh, you two are talking to it too,” Hadvar made his presence known again. "I guess I must be sleepwalking… or is it lucid dreaming when you know you’re in a dream?”  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio vanished for a couple hours after the double-cohort arrived in Helgen at dawn. The double-cohort’s addition to the population saw the town’s occupancy skyrocket, even though most of them actually were quartered under the city in the keep’s underground. An incident report was drawn up for the fallen Centurion, and her Optio promoted to replace her.  
  
Mohamara was given a list of things that the Legate in charge of the Falkreath Legion, the Eleventh, wanted him to enchant and a rough idea of the enchantment. However, he was allowed to sleep first because he’d already enchanted the entire double-cohort’s weapons. The Legate didn’t seem to care overmuch about Barbas’ presence, and actually pet the dog before leaving for the keep’s command tower.  
  
When he woke up from his delayed sleep, he was purring which already pinged his ‘what the fuck’ detectors.  
  
“So, I decided to look into the road to Haemar’s Shame while you were cat-napping,” Marcurio commented after the tojay moved. One of the Imperial’s hands was resting in between the cat’s ears, gently rubbing his scalp while the other examined Mohamara’s slate. “Nothing major, a Hagraven nest, Stormcloak camp, and some vampires thinking they can be sneaky just because they’re invisible.”  
  
The tojay slapped at Marcurio’s hand and scooted away. “Could you _stop_ doing that?”  
  
“Doing what? Scouting ahead? It’s quite alright, I’ve trained with the best at sneaking, and my spells can outpace any Hagraven or vampire.”  
  
“No, the--the touching thing.” Mohamara’s face was bright pink as he stood up from the cot assigned to him. “Could you please, at least, _ask?_ ”  
  
Marcurio tilted his head to the side, confused. “From what your father told me about your friends, and what you shouted about back in Solitude, all sorts of people do that.”  
  
“ _All sorts of people aren’t going to be my husband_ ,” Mohamara only forced his voice back from a yell when he saw other sleeping people in the contubernia sleeping quarters. “When they do that--I’m not a _person,_ to them, I’m some fucking stuffed toy. My friend looks after me, and she’s a way better fighter, I trust her with stuff like that. _You_ , I don’t!” Annoyed beyond reason Mohamara grabbed his armor and sat down cross-legged to start enchanting it.  
  
“And to think your father thought I’d have to _work_ to make you stand up to me like that,” Marcurio looked self-satisfied as he laid the slate on the cat’s cot.  
  
Mohamara squinted and paused with a spool of common soul-thread in the air. “... You were deliberately pushing my tolerance?”  
  
“Well, not deliberately in that way--you are _aggressively_ cute, you know. But a healthy relationship starts with healthy boundaries, and communication--which I was told would a problem for you.”  
  
One of the sleeping soldiers stirred, which drew Mohamara’s gaze for a moment before he looked back to Marcurio. “Could we… talk about this without an audience? Somewhere, _sometime_ else?”  
  
Macurio reached into his robes and retrieved a blue crystal on a fine gold chain. The crystal produced a faint vibrating whine and shined from within with magic. “Back in my university days I was learning how to do illusion magic, didn’t stick with it, but I did create this doo-dad. Once active, it creates a bubble-muffle spell. We’re inside it, and can hear each other, but no one outside can hear what we say, and vice versa.”  
  
The tojay sighed, defeated, and went back to enchanting his armor. He started with a basic feather enchantment to reduce the weight--always a good place to start. “That’s… pretty handy.”  
  
“Oh, it is. Especially for my line of work. But I’m certain you can do better.” The Imperial grinned to himself and put the bauble away. “So, let’s start some communicating, hmm? We’ve already got one boundary set up--no petting without asking permission.”  
  
“No _touching_ without permission,” Mohamara corrected. “And no going through my stuff, either.” He finally noticed his slate out of his bag and snatched it up.  
  
“Both, entirely fair! So, let me be the first to set up a boundary on my side, okay?” Marcurio leaned forward and, with a smug grin that did not reach his eyes, said: “Don’t ask me about my relationship with my father, alright? That’s my affair, I’ve moved past it, and talking about it won’t do anything for either of us.”  
  
“Sure, fine, whatever. No touching, no looking through each other’s stuff, no talking about your dad, seems a good way to start things.”  
  
“Now that we have some boundaries set up, let me say something? Start a line of communication? Exchange of ideas, yadda yadda?”  
  
Mohamara rolled his eyes and nodded. “Go ahead. But if it’s about me looking after myself, I’m doing that right now because with all the stuff the Legion wants me to work on we need to get Barbas and Clavicus Vile back together soon or I won’t have the free time.”  
  
“I noticed, and am happy about that. But back to what I was going to say.” Marcurio leaned back against the stone wall, and the shadows from the goat-horn sconces through the room hid his face. “I’ve been told you have a bit of an… emotional problem right now. No future, perceived helplessness, and a lack of self-determination. I knew about all those things when I signed on for this match. So if you thought I’d be okay with have Daedric in-laws, but not okay with a partner who needs help working through baggage, let me say up front that it isn’t true.”  
  
The cat looked over at him with a flat expression. “Am I supposed to believe you?”  
  
“Have I given you a reason to distrust me?”  
  
“Well, you did go through my things while I was asleep, and followed me across the country.” Mohamara looked at where Marcurio’s face was in the shadows and tried to retain the outrage that had prompted his outburst earlier. It didn’t work, and he ended up slouching against the wall. “But you’re also Sheogorath’s pick. He _says_ he checked for some of the bad stuff, but not only do I _actively distrust_ him, he’s insane. What he considers bad likely boils down to _disliking cheese_ or something like that.”  
  
“You two remind me of how Clavicus and his old flame used to be, back before they hit it off.” Both Khajiit and Imperial looked over to Barbas, who was looking at them as if he was a normal dog.  
  
“Thank you for your input, talking dog Daedra,” Marcurio drawled before his voice picked up on switching Mohamara. “Well--your mother signed off on me, too.”  
  
“Oh big fucking deal--I’ve never even _met_ her, she died before I was born.”  
  
There was a profound silence between the two of them, before the Imperial spoke again, utterly unable to understand what Mohamara had said. “H… how? How could that happen?”  
  
“I’m told she was clinically dead for about two minutes before they could cut me out of her, there was a lot of blood involved, it wasn’t magical, and overall became an indicator of how my life went.”  
  
“Ah… I’m sorry if it’s worth anything.”  
  
“Thank you, but I have no attachment to her other than hoping she diluted some of Sheogorath’s crazy when I brought her into this process.” The feather enchantment was done, so he started to work a passive Sunfire spell into the armor to make touching it painful for an undead. “Really, with you I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop. You’ll turn out to be a really well-hidden type of undead, or-or to worship Molag Bal and using this as a way to hurt Meridia. Or worse, you’ll pretend to be genuine and then, surprise, I get made into an offering for fucking _Boethiah_ or something.” As he spoke, the cat stopped his soul-thread craft, pulled on his ears, and started to curl up on his side. His brain was going into overdrive of all the _completely possible_ ways this could go wrong.  
  
Marcurio watched this happened from the shadows, and did not move. While it was tempting to try and hug the fear out of the cat, it would be violating the boundaries they set up. “Well, let me share something to try and convince of my honesty when I say I would like for this to work. I’m a member of the Thieves Guild, and a damn good one if I say so myself.”  
  
“Oh, thank you,” Mohamara laughed in a slightly unhinged way, “I had completely forgotten the possibility of being robbed of everything including the clothes off my back, _again_ , and have to try and rebuild my life. _Again._ ”  
  
“If I was going to rob you, I wouldn’t have had these made for you when the match was decided on.” The Imperial reached into his satchel and produced a narrow, rectangular blue box. “I wouldn’t have spent time and money talking with Ahkari and her caravan to learn the importance of them, or how Khajiit courtship is supposed to work.” The box was set down on the cot and slide across to Mohamara. “Which, as it turns out, involves lots of touching. So not doing that anymore.”  
  
The cat rocked back and forth for a moment, while he got his breathing under control enough to think about what Marcurio had said. Then he noticed the box on his cot, and glanced, fearful and questioning, at the shadowed Imperial.  
  
“Go on, they’re a present.”  
  
Inside the box, when Mohamara finally opened it, were four earrings. One large one, featuring a garnet carved to resemble a male lion’s face mid-roar; an intricately carved silver band with a diamond as the centerpiece; a silver hope from which three smaller hoops hung each with a silver tassel; and a small gold flower with a pearl the size of a human pinky nail at the center.  
  
“Khajiit earrings are sort of a big deal. Like, a mark of adulthood sort of thing. But overall, Khajiit are more open about wearing jewelry than other races--even Imperials. I’ve got more stuff like that to give you, but on a schedule, okay?”  
  
“They’re lovely, thank you.” Material goods didn’t really persuade Mohamara that a plot wasn’t afoot, but they helped him believe that a robbery wasn’t going to happen at some point. “Do they mean something?”  
  
“Well… no. I know this jeweler in Riften and asked him to make as many things as would look pretty on a Khajiit and showed him the portrait of you your father left with me. That’s the first batch.”  
  
“... Did you _pay_ for these?”  
  
“Oh, course I did. I paid for them, planted them on someone I didn’t like and accused _them_ of stealing them.”  
  
\--  
  
According to Hadvar, when he and Mohamara met back up after catching up on much-needed sleep, Marcurio wasn’t allowed to get everywhere the cat kept finding him. But the mage was exploiting an age-old infiltration: Confidence. Go somewhere with the confidence that you belonged there and people rarely stopped you.  
  
So, under the guise of field testing some weapon and armor enchantments in the Falkreath-Rift pass, Hadvar, Mohamara, and Barbas were allowed to leave without incident. The reason wasn’t even incorrect.  
  
Mohamara’s armor, once fully enchanted, sported a panoply of effects. Passive sunlight passing through to damage undead that made contact, a feather effect to make it light as cloth, elemental and environmental resistances, self-repairing, and several overlapping magicka effects.  
  
The cat had instinctively wanted to apply some magic to the earrings, but Barbas advised against it.  
  
“These vampires Clavicus has attracted to his shrine… they’re desperate. They’ve been suffering from the curse for so long they aren’t all themselves anymore. Givin’ them as few avenues as possible to hurt ya is how we’re going to get out of this fresh as daisies.”  
  
“Thank you, uncle Barbas,” Mohamara drawled as he switched out the Legion leather boots for his own Red Shoes outside Helgen’s walls. Immediately the enchantment sprung to life on sensing Barbas’ need for help.  
  
“No problem!”  
  
“I still can’t believe the dog is actually talking,” Hadvar said, amazed and profoundly disturbed. “Or that he’s your uncle. Is he cursed?”  
  
“Ehhh, something like that? Not so bad, bein’ a dog.” Barbas sat down on the snowy ground and barked happily. “I can see the best in people like this. A lot harder to do when you’re, say, a Nord, or a Khajiit.”  
  
“Or dashing rogues?” Marcurio’s sudden appearance alongside them gave both the cat and Nord reason to jump. Except when Mohamara jumped, it was a couple hundred feet straight up. “... Well, that wasn’t how I pictured that going.”  
  
“I don’t think landing on his feet from that high is going to do him any favors.”  
  
Meanwhile, still progressing upward, Mohamara’s brain went to work on solutions for the current problem: Falling and become a Khajiit pancake in the next few minutes.  
  
“You know,” Sheogorath commented from Mohamara’s ears, “if you’d just taken a bit more after your mother, and sisters, and grown some wings this wouldn’t have been a problem. So really, you’re the one responsible for this situation.”  
  
The tojay filed that information away for later and went back to thinking. Levitation magic seemed the most likely way out or teleportation magic. Both advanced forms of Mysticism that were going to be covered in the _next_ semester.  
  
“The solution is simple, son. You already know this magic business is all about delusion. So just learn to stop worrying and love the lie.”  
  
Of course, the literal god of madness would tell him to embrace mental illness. But… he wasn’t wrong. The cat had mused on the connection between Mysticism and effects technically of other schools before, and now he had a life-or-death situation to think of it.  
  
So, he dove into sympathetic bonds and set up a new bond. There was a certainty, absolute certainty, that when standing on the ground you wouldn’t fall through. He tapped into that certainty just as his forward momentum was overcome by the force of gravity.  
  
And he stopped falling. The cat stood on the air as if it was a completely flat but solid surface. The effect seemed to become unstable when the cat waved his hand through the air around his feet, but _seeing_ that there was nothing there had no effect. He hesitantly took a step forward and found the air supported him there too. And the same with the second.  
  
‘I can fly,’ the cat thought to himself. The natural response to this was, of course, to go completely mad and test the limits of this new field of magic.  
  
Far below, the Legate in charge of the Falkreath Legion looked up with his spyglass and saw the conscript General Tullius had sent him walking, running, and jumping on the air. The cat would vault over things that weren’t there, or move about as if on a climbing frame.  
  
He soon ceased his spyglassing and decided he needed a stiff drink of juniper berry mead. “Mages,” he sighed, half in wonder and half in exasperation.  
  
“Isn’t there something a certain ungrateful mortal should be saying to their loving parent right now?”  
  
Mohamara paused to catch his breath after spending some time bouncing on trampolines that weren’t really there. “Thank you, this is literally the best thing you have ever done for me.”  
  
Sheogorath’s voice in his ears sounded like it was crying, but Mohamara knew that to be an act. “At long last… my baby boy stops being an ungrateful mortal and can become a functional, deluded, member of the family.” And as quickly as it came, the weepy Sheogorath left. “Ooh, is that a dragon?”  
  
Mohamara looked around, and sure enough, found an ungainly winged figure flying near his elevation on the Rift side of the pass… heading toward him. “Yeah, that’s a dragon. Time to go.” The cat let himself start falling again and slid on a slope that wasn’t really there to keep his momentum down.  
  
Imagine the surprise of the three adventurers below when, long after he _should_ have come down, and long after both Marcurio and Barbas resigned to being annihilated by Meridia, the cat returned to Nirn like he was snowboarding on the air.  
  
“So hey, dragon on the way,” the cat commented into their dumbfounded expressions. “Who wants to go tell the people on the wall?”  
  
Hadvar opened his mouth to talk, but nothing came out. He thought a bit and gestured with a pointed finger like he had something to say, but said nothing. And finally, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m… going to increase my wages in the ledger, because frankly _I’m not being paid enough_ to put up with this.”  
  
“That’s fair.”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara had to fight the urge to just leap into the air and start running on things that weren’t really there and only held off when both Hadvar and Marcurio pointed out that it would make him a target for Stormcloak archers and the Hagraven higher up the mountain.  
  
The pass through the Jerral Mountains connected Falkreath and the Rift, and Haemar’s Shame was just past the halfway point there. With Barbas to show the most efficient ways, they soon found themselves in front of the icy cave to Clavicus’ shrine.  
  
“So, what do you know about Clavicus Vile?” Marcurio asked as they made their way in.  
  
“Daedric Prince of bargains, wishes, and overall an asshole,” Mohamara responded. Inside the cave was a vampire’s thrall archer. But the man went limp when the cat dispelled the magic keeping his mind enslaved. “He uses mortals as amusement, twists his deals into including nasty surprises, and overall leverages things so that he gets what he wants, and the mortals get nothing. At least, that’s how I’m told he used to be.”  
  
“Used to be?”  
  
Even Hadvar, who had decided that after a cat flying through the air and seeing a living dragon fly through the sky that nothing could surprise him anymore found the idea strange.  
  
“Well, you know how in Morrowind people view Boethiah and Mephala positively despite the… personalities of those two? It was sort of like that where I grew up. Clavicus Vile was still a jerk and he didn’t keep the spirit of his agreements, but he tended to avoid _killing_ people for fun.” No one quite knew why the change happened--just that five thousand years ago relative to Mohamara’s time, Clavicus Vile started to become nice, relative to how he was before. But then being stabbed in the kidney could be considered nice compared to Clavicus Vile in his heyday.  
  
“Hold up,” Marcurio stopped them as they passed out of the entrance cavern into an ice tunnel. He crouched down and indicated a spot of ice ahead of them. “That’s an illusion-guarded trap.”  
  
Mohamara felt out the bonds of the ongoing magical effect and dispelled them, revealing a metal pressure plate clear as day in front of them.  
  
“Now, watch this.” The thief-mage reached out and carefully touched the edge of the metal plate. From where he touched, the metal began to corrode and crack, rusting and then falling apart like chalk. When the Imperial stood up, the plate was basically a mess of rusted metal on the ground. “Alteration combined with Destruction, give it a try sometime.”  
  
Hadvar, with his enchanted shield, led the way into the next room, an icy room with a wooden ramp from the hall to the floor. They passed by a wall of spikes, likely tied to the pressure plate, and entered the room. Barbas immediately lept off the ramp and bit an invisible person that had been lurking at the bottom.  
  
Her pained scream was cut off by Marcurio and Mohamara firing projectiles where her head was--a bolt of lightning and ball of sunlight respectively. Once Barbas had bitten her, the invisibility effect weakened enough for her outline to become visible.  
  
The rest of the cavern went similarly to that. Barbas would rush ahead and attack something, Marcurio and Mohamara would blast it, and Hadvar would take on anything tough enough to survive.  
  
Hadvar seemed surprised the first time he swung his sword, and outright decapitated an Orc raised as a zombie by a vampire. “Is it… weird that I enjoyed that?”  
  
“Destroying undead is supposed to be fun,” Mohamara told him with cheer.  
  
“I thought all Nords enjoyed fighting,” Marcurio drawled, and was promptly elbowed in the groin by Mohamara.  
  
Barbas barked happily and jumped off a ledge to bite the nose off a vampire in the pit below.  
  
“I’m surrounded by _madmen_ ,” Hadvar decided and muttered a prayer to Mara for mental fortitude.  
  
They continued through the cavern until they started to reach a spot where there was more stone than ice on the walls and floor. And, most peculiarly, a small stream of water. However, the next interruption came from a pair of giant, dog-sized grey spiders that rose up and shook their legs and fangs in the direction of the party to ward them off.  
  
“Well, there’s no way to get around them and still make progress,” Hadvar commented. He sheathed his sword and pulled out his bow, ready to shoot the giant arachnids with the magic weapon.  
  
“No! No, no, no!” Marcurio lept in front of him and waved his hands in a negative gesture. “They’re clearly pets, kept by the vampires to dispose of bodies. Frostbite spiders that are accustomed to people handling them are _rare_ , and I know how to do it. Just let me handle this, okay?” The Imperial quickly ran back the way they’d come and came back dragging a corpse behind him.  
  
He approached the spiders with the corpse offered, and steadily the frostbite spiders lowered their warning signs and let him set the corpse between them. Afterward, the spiders went to work cocooning the dead Breton and ignored the party altogether.  
  
“Once I’m done with this, I’ll be coming back for you two,” the Imperial cooed like he was talking to a pair of babies. “Oh, I can’t wait to put you with the others, and see how big you can grow!”  
  
“... What?” Mohamara actually felt a bit afraid of the man hearing this. “You’ll… what?”  
  
“Hmm? Oh, I keep several frostbite spiders back in Riften as pets. The Hold is practically brimming with the things. And,” he looked so utterly _smug_ it made Mohamara wonder if perhaps he was mad, “I’ve made a successful, legitimate, business out of collecting their silk and spinning it into clothes.” He plucked at the yellow mage robes he wore. “The best, and only, source of silk in all of Skyrim!”  
  
“You… keep man-eating spiders around _as pets_ , and make clothes from their webs?” Hadvar actually took a step away from Marcurio, his face horrified. “You’re mad!”  
  
“So was the first man to see a horse and decide to jump on its back.” Marcurio shrugged. “They’ll let us go, just don’t touch their meal.”  
  
Hesitantly, Mohamara, Barbas, and Hadvar did as Marcurio instructed and simply walked around the spiders. The Imperial leaned down to talk to the cat as he passed.  
  
“You don’t have… a thing against spiders, do you? Your father didn’t mention it, but it's impossible for fathers to know everything about their sons.”  
  
“No,” Mohamara sighed and tried not to listen to the sounds of the frostbite spiders injecting their venom into the cadaver. He rapidly invented a topic to discuss to avoid the real one: That even those small spiders could easily eat _him_ if they wanted. “Just… it makes me wonder where we’ll be living. I have a lot of land in Haafingar, and, presumably, you have a house in Riften. Or a lair. Or something.”  
  
“Did you know you’ve stopped wondering when I’m going to be ending my vacation?” Sheogorath commented from inside Mohamara’s ears. “You probably haven’t noticed it, but I just wanted to let you know you’re beginning to accept that going back home might not ever happen!”  
  
“Ooh, property in Haafingar would be _wonderful_.” Marcurio’s eyes practically lit up with the possibilities. “But I personally think that we should discuss that after we’ve helped the Prince, don’t you?”  
  
Barbas answered for them and lept out of the tunnel into a mostly stone room. The biggest feature here was a statue of a horned young man, holding a stone mask aloft. Strangely, the statue was off-center, and the pictured man’s free hand looked like it had once been resting on something.  
  
When the last three vampires were dead, and the last thrall freed of her slavery it was time to call upon the Prince. Hadvar explored behind the statue and found a stone chest full of loot, which in turn brought Marcurio’s attention.  
  
However, Barbas and Mohamara stayed behind, with the dog laying down in front of the statue, and the cat reaching up to call upon its master. “Clavicus Vile, Lord of Wishes, Giver of Gifts, I beseech you with a request.”  
  
There was no great, dramatic entrance. Only a warm wind and a smell like candy and rotting flesh that passed over Mohamara before a nasally, but still charming, voice joined Barbas’ in his head. “Well, let’s hear it. Since you generously helped me to grant my last worshipper’s request, I do owe you.”  
  
“Was that why you had them come after me, Lord?”  
  
“Hmm? No, that was for that little _secret_ you let slip a while ago, kitty cat.” The disembodied Prince laughed like he was forcing it. “Princes like me, who aren’t doing so well, can’t afford to have knowledge like that floating around, you see? It gives mortals _foolish notions._ ”  
  
“Hey, you probably want to get to the meat of the issue,” Barbas cut in. “Clavicus sounds like he’s run out of chocolate again.”  
  
“I _have not_ you wretched, flea-ridden mongrel!”  
  
Mohamara considered the situation, and what he knew of Clavicus Vile. Straight up asking for the Prince to take the dog back would likely end up with a flat refusal. So he had to be clever. He had to do something unexpected… he had to think like Sheogorath.  
  
“I do have a wish for you to grant, Lord Vile,” Mohamara declared. “But first I must ask you questions, to see if it is suitable for one as great and generous as you.”  
  
“You know, that’s actually very thoughtful of you,” Clavicus Vile responded with clear appreciation. “So many mortals summon me up for stupid things that I have no choice but to twist it around and make some fun. Ask away!”  
  
“First… why is your faithful hound not at your side?”  
  
The Prince’s disembodied voice scoffed. “Because I remembered that I _don’t need him_ , that’s what! I’m still a Prince of Oblivion… even with most of my power gone… and… and unable to do much, even in my shrines….”  
  
Barbas whined, and Mohamara asked his next question. “Barbas tells me that someone, somewhere, has recently done a grand gesture on your behalf, and it sparked your argument. Is this true?”  
  
“ _My affairs_ are none of your concern, mortal.” There was some silence before the Prince spoke up again, sounding a bit lovey-dovey which frankly terrified Mohamara to imagine. “But yes. I… I used to have a thing going on with this spectacular mortal, you might know them, doesn’t really matter. We cut it off because Azura kept throwing a fit. Said I was _too good_ for a mortal.”  
  
“Would you tell me about them, my lord?”  
  
And so Clavicus Vile told Mohamara about a hermaphrodite Dunmer born to a netchiman’s wife. A student of Fa-Nuit-Hen, a poet, a legendary warrior, a friend and betrayer, a father and kinslayer, a conqueror of many Daedric Princes and a god of mortal make. He told Mohamara the story of Vivec.  
  
“...And then they, thy banished her out of the mortal realm! And the way they did it, oh-my-goodness it was so perfect! I mean, I know she’s your grandma and all, but she’s also sort of a bitch who had it coming.” Clavicus Vile had forgotten that Mohamara was someone he wanted dead, and spoke freely about his issues. The cat could feel Barbas pulling on the Prince through their connections, even when banished, to work his influence into Vile.  
  
“It sounds like you love them, Lord Vile. And that they, after so very long, love you too.”  
  
Marcurio and Hadvar were dividing up the treasure they had found in the chest--most likely offerings to Clavicus that had built up over centuries.  
  
“Yeah… yeah, I think they do too. It’s so… weird to think that despite what happened, they still _care_ , you know? We didn’t have the cleanest breakup, you see.”  
  
It was frankly a bit annoying to keep his arms up in the pose of beseeching for so long. But the cat didn’t complain and risk spoiling Vile’s good mood. “And it sounds like Azura can’t stop you anymore, either.”  
  
“You bet your furry arse she can’t! Ha! She probably still can’t even fix her own damned artifact after that.”  
  
“Then why aren’t you with them right now?”  
  
The question seemed to stun the Prince, who floundered--looking for words. “I-I, I don’t have to explain myself to _you_ , mortal! Why for asking such a stupid question I ought to… I oughtta….”  
  
Barbas glanced over to Mohamara and the cat guessed the dog Daedra was doing his best to melt Vile’s sudden outrage.  
  
“W-what if they’re… _mad_ at me?” Rage was replaced with anxious, near-crying, worry. “It’s been thousands of years, and-and I haven’t said anything to them! How can I go to them and-and expect things to go back to the way they were?”  
  
“My Lord, do you doubt that they still love you?”  
  
The Prince’s disembodied voice sniffed loudly, enough for the humans to stop and stare like Vile was trying to control himself from actually crying. “No….”  
  
“Do you no longer love them?”  
  
“No!”  
  
“Do they know that?” Mohamara’s question seemed to stop Vile dead in his tracks. Even Barbas lifted up his head in surprise. “I’ve asked enough questions, my lord. Would you hear my wish?”  
  
“S-sure, whatever.” The Prince seemed dazed by Mohamara’s last question.  
  
“I wish for you to go to Vicec, and tell them how much you love them. I wish for you to try and find happiness with them as you did in the past.”  
  
“...Y-you’re tricking me, you can’t-- _I_ can’t. I can’t go where Vivec is because I’d need Barbas.”  
  
“Your hound is here, and he still obeys his master even when it hurts him to do so.”  
  
The dog Daedra sat up and barked once at the statue. “Just say the word, Clavicus,” the dog’s nasally voice came into the mortal minds. “I’ll be right there.”  
  
“... You're sure? You want to use your wish… on me?” Clavicus, it seemed, could not refuse a wish that gave him what he wanted, even if he had been so upset by it to split himself apart.  
  
“You are my uncle, my lord. If it makes you happy, it is what I want.”  
  
The Daedra of twisting wishes found he couldn’t twist this wish as he had others. Both parties wanted the same thing, there was no way to have only one party come out of this with what they wanted. Unbeknownst to either of them, Clavicus’ Sphere of Wishes began to expand from this development and would keep doing so for eleven thousand years.  
  
“Al-alright. Alright! Yeah! I’m going to go over there, and tell them how I feel! Barbas, what in the pit are you still doing there?! Get up here, we’ve got places to be!”  
  
The dog Daedra vanished in a bubble of Daedric fire, which caused Hadvar to jump and knock over the carefully divided stack of gems and gold he and Marcurio had been building. A second bubble of Daedric fire appeared, and there was suddenly a dog statue, next to Clavicus’.  
  
Clavicus’ presence vanished and was replaced with the icy chill of the cavern. At long last, Mohamara lowered his arms and stumbled over to sit with the humans. “By the Green Room, he’s like an omnipotent _teenager_. Oy vey.”  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio left for Riften after the loot was divided again, with the two frostbite spiders following behind him on weird leashes. He left with the promise to be coming by again to further the courtship, and bring more presents. Frankly, Mohamara was glad that the Imperial had honored his word and didn’t touch the cat again without first asking permission, and that he could get back to work.  
  
Well, mostly get back to work.  
  
Using the ability to imagine things into being real enough to interact with made things so much easier to do in general. Did he need a cup for a drink? Imagine it. Did he need a tool that wouldn’t be invented for thousands of years for enchanting? Imagine it.  
  
And the ability to just use tojay jump height to quickly get high into the air made a good way to get away for relaxing or finding a pleasant view to eat his lunch.  
  
On one such occasion, the Khajiit had a unique treat of watching a cloud pass by close to him while he was eating a grilled salmon on a stick. And it became even more unique when the cloud stopped passing by.  
  
It roughly looked like an elf head, with the pointy ears, and half of it was lit by the sun while the other was shadowed. But when glowing eyes appeared out from the ‘head’, Mohamara put it together that he wasn’t actually seeing a cloud.  
  
_”You have done me a peerless kindness,”_ said the cloud of Vivec in a resonating voice. _”You, who has helped my ally, has become my friend; and you, who helped my love, deserves a reward.”_  
  
A glowing pink sphere flew out of one of cloud-Vivec’s eyes and hovered close to Mohamara in the sky. “Um… thank you, my lord?”  
  
_”With this gift, I am no longer a god talking to a mortal. With this gift, we are truly, finally, kin. As you have done a kindness for me and mine, I give Kindness… to you.”_ The sphere moved again and phased through the Khajiit to stop inside his chest.  
  
He almost threw up from the wave of nausea that hit him and had to force his mouth closed to avoid spitting salmon all over himself. The stripes on Mohamara’s fur changed color, from dark black and brown to pastel pink, with similar transitions happening on the backs of his ears, and the lines surrounding his eyes. But because of the urge to not throw up, Mohamara didn’t realize this at first.  
  
_”May your kindness help others as it has helped me and mine. Farewell.”_  
  
The cloud-Vivec quickly broke apart with the forces of nature acting on it once again. And after he got his nausea under control, Mohamara was able to wonder what the fuck had just happened. “Asshole could have at least waited for me to swallow my food first….”  
  
\---  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khajiit courtship rituals, per ESO, involve a lot of physical contact that other races have... mixed responses to.


	29. An excess of Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having elemental kindness in your chest ain't all its cracked up to be.

\---  
**Chapter 29: An excess of Kindness**  
  
When Mohamara found out about his new… pinkness, he had a phase of ‘no one may see me, for any reason’. He walked around in a human-sized cloak and held it as close to himself as he possibly could. And overall, the Legion was content to let him be this way as long as he kept enchanting their gear.  
  
But as usual, Yagraz wouldn’t let him stew in self-pity.  
  
“Short-stuff, why are you denying my looking glass request?”  
  
“I’m not decent.”  
  
“One, I’ve known you since you were six years old. Two, I’m the one that got your stuff for you every time those punks in school swiped ‘em. Three, then put some fucking pants on.”  
  
“...You’ll laugh at me.”  
  
“Maybe I will, do you look stupid?”  
  
“I don’t know? _I_ think I do, but I haven’t let anyone see me since it happened.”  
  
“Wait--since _what_ happened?” Yagraz’s end of the line brought with it the sound of her standing up and picking up her gear. “Did someone slash your face or something? You’re at Helgen, right? I’m on my way--and if you point out who did it, I’ll--”  
  
The cat, realizing the building momentum of Yagraz’s ‘someone’s gonna die’ setting, quickly accepted the last pending looking glass request. With the brightness on his slate down to the minimum, it didn’t really cast enough light to overcome the shadow from his overlarge cloak. “If I show you… you promise not to laugh.”  
  
Yagraz, who was still putting on her armor despite the looking glass session, gave him a look. A look for clarification.  
  
Mohamara flipped back the hood, and let her see the new him. The initial pinkening had only been a prelude as things started to change. When he opened his mouth Yagraz recoiled at the sight of his new fangs, considerably larger than they had been before. He looked rather like a miniature sabrecat in the teeth department. All of his pink stripes were accompanied by lines of pale blue-gray and pale lime green, with the former sweeping off from the main pink stripe in organic curves while the latter did so in jagged lines.  
  
The Orc woman said nothing as she looked at him, in ever-increasing confusion. So Mohamara chatted to fill the silence. “I… I think I finally hit the Daedric puberty thing or had it happen to me? There’s… been a few developments since we talked last time.”  
  
The Companion sighed and returned to her chair. “Tell me everything.”  
  
And so he did. He told her of meeting Marcurio, and of course, she wanted to know if he was handsome. Mohamara evaded the question by discussing the march to Falkreath, and helping Clavicus Vile, and meeting Vivec.  
  
“...And since then, I’ve been hearing or seeing things. Sympathetic connections automatically form around me. This girl from the village wanted to learn how to sing, so I stopped what I was doing and went to teach her what I knew from the bard’s college. And-and I don’t know _why_ , I did. I got yelled at for leaving my work unfinished! She’s been coming by every day and I run her through the breathing exercises and how to shift between keys.”  
  
Yagraz frowned and listened to Mohamara babble on about the topic. Eventually, she snapped her fingers to get his attention again. “Short-stuff.” She sounded super-serious. “You enormous pile of salt-water taffies. You’re becoming a Daedra.”  
  
The Khajiit squinted at her. “I… don’t feel any more connected to Oblivion. Don’t need a sigil stone to keep existing. Oh, and I don’t have any problem connecting with other people. So I’m going to say… no.”  
  
“An Aedra then, you’re just not a mortal anymore.” She gave him a sad smile. “I know you didn’t have your heart set on the afterlife like I did, but you should probably talk to your Daedra and see if the old setup still works, hmm?”  
  
Mohamara processed this and nodded. “Yeah… yeah, I should see about asking her on her summoning day. Still half a year off, but I can get the materials for it.”  
  
“That’s the spirit. Now, how about you go get those earrings your hubby got you and I’ll tell you how to put them in without getting an ear infection.”  
  
\--  
  
It took nigh on a week for Mohamara to feel comfortable enough to go without the cloak. And when he did, only the Legate made it a thing worth mentioning. And only because there were some documents that needed to be signed to prove the earrings belonged to Mohamara if they were stolen, or if his body was discovered without other identifying marks. A sketch artist had to create small charcoal pictures of them, and they were added to Hadvar’s ledger.  
  
He had two in each ear--the lion and tasseled hoops, and the pearl flower with the diamond. And, naturally, they were enchanted--more acute hearing, an intuition effect, regeneration, and magic resistance.  
  
Aside from the Stormcloak camp in the pass losing half its men to an attack from the Hagraven coven which most of the Helgen garrison listened to with sympathy, things were going alright.  
  
Until Vigilants of Stendarr came to Helgen.  
  
As it turned out, Stendarr was the patron god of the Legion and the Vigilants frequently recruited from discharged or former Legionnaires. That was the purpose of the Vigilants who had come to Helgen, to give a sermon to the garrison and let them know that if they needed a cause to fight for after their time with the Legion was done, they could find one in the Vigil.  
  
Mohamara, naturally, wanted nothing to do with it.  
  
“Look, if any of the Vigilants have some enchanting they need to be done, they go through you, okay?” The cat said as he hastily went looking for the human-sized cloak he’d put into storage. Hadvar stood behind him, watching this happen, with the ledger open. “At no point are any of them to come to me in person. Is that alright?”  
  
“Well,” Hadvar started, clearly anxious about something. “I suppose I can manage that. It’s unlikely that they do have anything they need so desperately that they ask the Legion for a favor.”  
  
The cat stopped and looked at Hadvar. It was so easy to slip into the sympathetic bonds around him that he could almost see them. Words in letters about increasing dragon attacks, how smaller settlements were being totally wiped out, and an elderly Nord woman worrying about someone out in Riverwood all came bubbling up from Hadvar’s bonds.  
  
“You know what,” Mohamara said and abandoned his search instinctively. “How about we call it a day early, huh? You take the afternoon off and write a letter to Riverwood to tell your family as much as you can about dragons, and I’ll hide in a kettle or something.”  
  
The Nord smiled down at him. “That’s a wonderful thought, but this is the Legion, we don’t just get to call it a day whenever we want to.”  
  
Mohamara thought about this development for only a moment before he had a brilliant plan. He quickly went to his work table and laid one arm on it flat. “I have an idea. It should give you the time to actually go down to Riverwood and tell your family there about the dragons.”  
  
“What are you planning to do?”  
  
Mohamara imagined a meat cleaver in his other hand and briefly spun it around to give the delusion some weight. “I can’t enchant without both my hands and at the strength for my regeneration effect, it should take a week to grow this back.” Without pausing to actually think about what happened, Mohamara brought the cleaver down on his arm halfway between the wrist and the elbow.  
  
There were about five seconds that passed as both Nord and Khajiit realized what had just happened. Then the screaming began.  
  
“Why did you do that?!” Hadvar shouted while he tied a leather strap around Mohamara’s arm just above the amputation.  
  
“It seemed the best way to let you see your family!”  
  
The two of them shouted at each other about how perhaps amputation of a major limb was not the most optimal way to secure family visitation. And while this happened, the freshly amputated hand and arm of Mohamara began to move on its own, and scuttle away. As it did, the composition of the limb changed until it resembled a fleshy cocoon This then rolled into a dark corner where it could continue to develop undisturbed.  
  
\--  
  
The closest thing Hadvar could do to Mohamara to keep him from similarly stupid stunts was to keep him on a fixed schedule. Aside from teaching the village children about singing, mathematics, and literacy, he would have half an hour to do things for people. As time went on it became easier to predict where the random sympathetic bonds would lead him to for solutions, and easier to fight against the bad ones.  
  
That Yagraz continued to call him ‘stumpy’ instead of her usual short-stuff while his arm regenerated certainly motivated him in that regard.  
  
And then came the battle for Whiterun.  
  
The double-cohort and Falkreath Legion moved north in a rapid deployment in response to the Stormcloaks moving siege weapons onto the road from Eastmarch to Whiterun. In the end, the battle proved pointless.  
  
The Stormcloaks had not taken into account that while the Companions were apolitical, they would fight for the protection of Whiterun Hold, and among their number was Yagraz, the only Tongue other than Ulfric Stormcloak in all of Skyrim. The two armies, plus Whiterun’s own defenses led by the Companions clashed near a mammoth graveyard and expanded on it considerably.  
  
Mohamara heard details about the battle afterward from Yagraz. There had been, apparently, much glory to be won. But he was not permitted to join the fighting, instead, he stayed at Helgen and continued to work.  
  
After the two and a half armies fought, it looked like the Empire would win. But a dragon decided to intervene. His name was Mirmulnir, he had long ago decided not to give his veneration to Alduin or to Akatosh, but to Hircine. The dragon hunted for the Daedra’s glory and was one of the few dragons to live out the time between the dragon war and the Fourth Era.  
  
Yagraz had known all this because she had killed him and absorbed his soul into hers. And the Greybeards witnessed it.  
  
The Greybeards were an order of Tongues that practiced a peculiar religion. They held that the Thu’um was a gift from the gods, and when mortals who were not Dragonborn learned it, they could only use it in dire need and only to speak of the glory of the gods. Their order would cease to exist in the Sixth Era when the Suzerain of Alinor, who ruled the first continent-wide elven empire, decided to attempt to eliminate all knowledge of the Thu’um that would not conform to his government’s view of the world.  
  
But the order was not yet dead and they had created an earthquake across all Skyrim calling out to Yagraz with their combined thu’umme. What they intended for her on the slopes of the Throat of the World no one seemed to know, but Jarl Balgruuf had commanded her to go and find out. And there was only one path up to the Greybeard’s fortress of High Hrothgar, a spiral road up the mountain that started in the Rift town of Ivarstead. Which meant that Yagraz had to come to Helgen anyway to use the Falkreath-Rift pass.  
  
As luck would have it, she arrived almost exactly the same time that Marcurio returned from Riften. They encountered one another in the marketplace adjacent to the Helgen Keep where Mohamara was teaching the Helgen children about silent letters. She knew Marcurio from the layer of compressed smug that surrounded him and his soul-patch. And he knew Yagraz from her being a _six-foot-eight_ Orc and one of the Companions.  
  
So while the cat taught his lesson to the children-- best friend and the betrothed wordlessly went to the tavern to have a _talk_.  
  
For a while, they just sat at the same table and drank their juniper berry mead. Marcurio found the taste sublime and made a note to buy a bottle to bring to Maven. While she was, at best, a virago of a woman, she appreciated creativity and would probably pay the barkeep handsomely to make more mead for the Black-Briars.  
  
Yagraz liked tasting the mead again, it reminded her of home in Dushnikh-Yal. Juniper berries grew like weeds in the Reach, so once juniper berry mead became a big thing, it was a major money-maker to grow and sell them. And the money made with that was then used to bring in the mead they’d helped to make. It was that economy that would eventually see Dushnikh-Yal outshine other strongholds in Skyrim, and become the largest Orc community in the province.  
  
She hadn’t actually been to Dushnikh-Yal since coming to the Fourth Era and made a note to visit.  
  
“So,” Marcurio started once his mead was half gone. “Are you going to threaten me with the ‘if you ever hurt him’ thing too?”  
  
Yagraz didn’t want to be typical, but there was something she felt the smug Imperial needed to know. The giant Orc downed the last of her mead and called for more before talking. “Not like that, but… sorta?” She shrugged when Marcurio looked at her with a curious expression. “Yeah, if I find out you’ve been hittin’ him or turning him out for tricks, or just bein’ an asshole for the sake of bein’ an asshole, I’ll hurt ya. But then so will his dad, and his dad is _way_ scarier than me.” Yagraz leaned forward and held her mug out for the barkeep to fill it up again. “You’re not going to be cutting me out of his life. He knows how to get ahold of me, anywhere, anytime. And he can’t hide that sorta stuff from me. If it happens, _I will find out_. So don’t let it happen.”  
  
Marcurio nodded with a smile. “Perfectly reasonable. I didn’t have any intention of doing him harm, unless he asked me to,” the Imperial rapidly raised and lowered his eyebrows and Yagraz couldn’t help but smile a bit. At least the husband to be wasn’t as stiff as Mohamara. “But thank you for being upfront about that. May I ask you something?”  
  
“Must fight the urge to be a smartass and point out you just did. Oh no.” Yagraz’s voice was totally flat before she livened up. “Go ahead.”  
  
“When I last had a big… talk with him, he nearly went into a panic attack about all the ways that this could go wrong. Mentioned some other religions that… exploit the position I’m in. And how his father wasn’t trustworthy.” Marcurio called for more mead, and for the bottle he intended to take to Maven. “That his mother also signed off on me did nothing to convince him. Has he… not met her?”  
  
Yagraz nodded. “What I heard was that she died while he was bein’ born, so even if she wound up in the Shivering Isles afterward he’s never met her.”  
  
“She didn’t.” Macurio frowned at Yagraz, confused but also interested. “I met her, spoke with her, she threatened to turn me and everyone related to me by blood into craters visible from Masser and Secunda.”  
  
“Really? Huh, I like her already. But I don’t see how--”  
  
“He’s wearing _her amulet_. From what I was told he was raised in _her_ temple on Mount Kilkreath.” All amusement was gone from Marcurio’s face as he deftly paid the barkeep far more than the mead was worth--to engender a positive response when Maven came calling. “Am I dropping _enough hints_?”  
  
Yagraz stared. And she stared while she set her drink down. And she stared while in her head wheels turned until all the pieces lined up. And then she was _mad_. She was so mad that it felt like she was _tweaking_ from how hard it was to keep her hands steady and how hard it was not to go on a rampage and kill everything between her and her friend. “Well,” she said with a cheerfully unhinged voice. “That would certainly help in getting him to trust you. Which is going to be necessary because I’m going to be spending the next while figuring out how to punch that woman right in her _fucking face_.”  
  
The giant Orc woman downed the last of her mead and set a fistful of gold on the table before she stood and stormed out of the tavern toward the keep. Marcurio hastily grabbed another mouthful of the juniper-flavored alcohol and rushed after her. “Wait, I didn’t mean to make you so mad.”  
  
“ _You_ didn’t, slick. Short-stuff’s mom did, and ooh. The second.” She stopped, spun and pointed right into Marcurio’s face. “The _literal_ second I find a godswife of Malacath, I’m going to ask him how to punch that woman as hard as she deserves.” People were starting to turn and stare at how much Yagraz was raising her voice the longer she talked.  
  
“Good to see that it wasn’t just me who gets threatened with violence,” Macurio quipped.  
  
The scene Yagraz was making ended with Hadvar approaching the two and shoving Marcurio with both hands. “Alright, sneak-thief,” Hadvar absolutely _snarled_ , “what game are you playing at? Where did your friend take the Khajiit?”  
  
Marcurio’s expression darkened, but he took a deep breath and adjusted his robe. “That’s your one freebie,” the mage-thief responded in an equally unpleasant tone. “Everyone gets one. Now, I haven’t even met with Mohamara since arriving here--I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“He’s tellin’ the truth,” Yagraz cut in.  
  
Hadvar glanced at her and realized whom he was talking too. Immediately his face lit up with wonder and excitement. “Oh. Yo-you vouch for him, Companion? Alright. I guess… something else must be afoot.”  
  
“Yeah, that tends to be how these things go, now spill the beans. What’s going on?”  
  
Hadvar looked at each of them in turn and then the diminishing group of people watching them. “Well, an… associate of Mohamara’s betrothed,” he narrowed his eyes at Marcurio, “I don’t think I ever got your name…. Well, I know his organization’s trademark armor well enough. A woman from his organization showed up and said she was to deliver a gift of your affection.”  
  
“If you _knew_ whom she and I worked for, why didn’t you arrest her?” Marcurio’s dark look lightened a tad with the return of his usual smug grin. “Why haven’t you arrested me?”  
  
“If you don’t wipe that smug look off your face, I’ll--”  
  
Yagraz sighed and got between the two squabbling men. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, you’re _both_ pretty. Now focus.”  
  
“Thank you,” Marcurio gave her a shallow bow for the compliment. “Already I’m seeing problems. I wouldn’t trust half my colleagues to deliver a hat, let alone even one of the gifts I’ve arranged for my betrothed.” The mage-thief made a show of rolling his eyes. “I’ve paid enough for jewelry alone that my jeweler bought a house!”  
  
Meanwhile, in Riften, one of the last Saxhleel jewelers in Tamriel sat on his porch on the shores Lake Honrich, while his two houseguests--both previously beggars--fished for lunch. “Perhaps I should visit the temple of Mara more,” he said to himself. “I feel like somehow, all this was possible because of her.”  
  
Back in Helgen, Hadvar sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Well, the woman said that the ‘Dibellan nature’,” he added the euphemism when some children passed close to the trio, “required it be given in private. And demanded to be paid for her delivery. So I went to write up a letter of credit, and came back to find both of them _gone_ , with signs of a struggle.”  
  
There was a moment of silence as both Companion and thief stared at Hadvar before they both spoke at the same time: “I can’t believe you fell for that.”  
  
“First of all,” Marcurio started to count off on his fingers, clearly incensed. “Leaving a person in _my_ profession alone in a Legion facility is never wise. Second of all, all ‘Dibellan’ gifts should come _after_ marriage, and after a conversation on the subject--and frankly, I’m insulted you think me the sort of person to do otherwise. And third of a, _I can’t believe_ you fell for something like that.”  
  
“I can’t believe _short-stuff_ would fall for it,” Yagraz muttered, confused.  
  
“Well, in the last few weeks, he hasn’t really been himself,” Hadvar offered as explanation, eager to get the topic off his error. “When I left he was trying to create something called ‘pizza’ and was working on the right cheese blend. But I found this note on the floor when I returned.  
  
Marcurio snatched the note from the Legionnaire and scowled as he read it. “‘Lose something?’ And a symbol I happen to know is associated with a competitor with my guild.” He handed the note to Yagraz for her to inspect, and began to crack his knuckles. “It’s been so long since I last murdered someone, I hope that my betrothed doesn’t mind a slightly rusty rescue.”  
  
“Don’t worry,” Yagraz offered with an understanding look. “I’ll be helping you out. Now we just need to find him.”  
  
“We’ll just need to look for a Dark Elf woman in Thieves Guild armor, accompanied by an indecent Khajiit.” Hadvar tried to get in on the solidarity that was building but found himself subjected to two expressions demanding answers. “Um, Mohamara’s been enchanting pretty much everything he owns now. And well, everything that was enchanted was… left behind. I guess to make the kidnapping--catnapping--easier?”  
  
\--  
  
Not too far to the north, a waify Dunmer in customized leather armor felt a bone-chilling cold sweep over her, despite there being no wind and the forests of Falkreath being some of the warmest--if dampest--places in Skyrim. “I get the feeling that my scheme’s been discovered,” she said and doubled her speed.  
  
On her back was a fur-lined sack that had a child-sized Khajiit head sticking out the top of it, muzzled and not enjoying himself one bit.  
  
“Don’t worry, the next dose of magicka-draining poison won’t taste as bad. Though word is you don’t like the taste of wine, so maybe it’ll end up being worse. Nothing I can do about that now.” The Dunmer woman huffed as she quickly crested a hill and was in view of Lake Ilinalta. “At least you don’t have claws so I didn’t need to put those demeaning boots and mittens on you.”  
  
Her prisoner said nothing and just sighed.  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcurio has a whole boudoir's worth of stuff at home for short-stuff, mostly boxed up since they still need to talk about permanent residencies.


	30. Friendly Neighborhood Sneak-thief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcurio does things!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marcurio's real hidden talent is the power of land development.

Marcurio's real hidden talent is the power of land development.  
\---  
**Chapter 30: Friendly Neighborhood Sneak-thief**  
  
Hadvar showed Marcurio and Yagraz to Mohamara’s workplace in Helgen keep and tried to stay out of their way while they examined the scene.  
  
This proved not to be a good idea, as both parties rapidly became agitated.  
  
“This is what passes for ‘signs of a struggle’? I’m going to guess that whoever did this cleaned up afterward because it’s _useless_.” Yagraz was certainly not impressed, either Mohamara had been utterly blindsided, or he couldn’t put up a fight worth a damn. Either was entirely possible.  
  
“These working conditions are appalling, but to be expected with the Legion.” Marcurio dismissively froze some moss growing on the walls, and looked around some more. “There is not much else to find here, why don’t you use that secret method of communicating with him, hmm?”  
  
The giant Orc thrust her jaw out in Marcurio’s direction. “Requires magic, which he can’t do where he is, it looks like.” She refused to tell him more details, in case he turned out to be a scumbag.  
  
“The best things in life often do.” Something caught the mage-thief’s eye, and he bent down to examine a small hole dug into the side of the wall. Inside he spied a cocoon of pastel pink, blue-grey, and pale lime green nestled in the far corner. Immediately, his face lit up with excitement. “Ooh, I think I found something.”  
  
Yagraz quickly abandoned looking through crates of enchanted swords to come over to where the Imperial was crouched, and Hadvar did similarly.  
  
They did not share in Marcurio’s enthusiasm as he retrieved the cocoon. “This is a spider’s egg sac, and close to fully developed,” he cooed. “I’ve never _seen_ this pattern before, but if the spider that made it can spin _colored_ threads, it could be really valuable.”  
  
The giant Orc squinted at it. “It sorta looks like short-stuff’s fur, got the same colors.”  
  
“Huh… I guess that’s where his hand went?” Hadvar mused and then found himself being subject to an angry mage-thief’s glare. “Oh, Mohamara had an… incident and chopped off one his hands a week or so ago. It’s grown back!” The last part was added hastily as lightning began to gather in Marcurio’s free hand.  
  
The Imperial took a deep breath and calmed down. “Alright. I’ll need to talk to him about that after the rescue. But this… tells us nothing. There’s no evidence of where they went to be found.” Marcurio looked over his shoulder and winked at Hadvar. “Good luck on telling General Tullius you lost the best enchanter in all Tamriel.”  
  
Yagraz had to admit, watching the facial journey Hadvar went on as he processed that horrifying reality was sort of funny. “Well… maybe the Greybeards know a Shout that I can use to find him. Or we could try a scrying ritual?”  
  
“I don’t know how to scry. But I have associates who know all the latest news across the province, and a tojay being spotted should be newsworthy.”  
  
“Sounds like a plan.”  
  
With an affirmative nod, the two of them went their separate ways, leaving Hadvar with a mess to clean up, both literally and metaphorically.  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio made a stop by Riften before heading to Solitude, to drop off the presents he’d meant to give Mohamara and to get his kit. Fancy silk robes were great for impressing his betrothed, but when the time for good old skullduggery came about, Guild leathers were, unfortunately, top of the line. At least, they would be until he could see if Mohamara would be receptive to helping create better, more fashionable, options for the Guild. Marcurio’s standing rule of ‘silks or nothing’ would have to become a Guild rule someday.  
  
So, once Marcurio had dropped off his gifts at his--to quote his betrothed--’lair’, he made for Riften. The strange cocoon he’d found in Helgen he kept with him at all times, wrapped up in a wolf pelt in his satchel, along with several vials of poison-countering potions. The new spider species could be venomous from infancy, for all he knew.  
  
He stopped by the Black-Briar Meadery to leave the juniper-berry mead for Maven to examine when she got done patrolling the market for anything worth her time. Marcurio got the feeling, from just how _much_ time was spent for something _worth_ her time that she was terribly bored.  
  
Riften, a city that had once been a beauty to rival Solitude or Whiterun, built on the shores of Lake Honrich, and surrounded by the permanently autumnal Fall Forest. Marcurio hadn’t _disliked_ Riften when he first arrived, but he’d been distracted at the time. Once he’d gotten access to the Ragged Flagon, seen to his personal business, and joined with the Guild on a lark, he began to notice how run down and dirty the city was.  
  
Fortunately for him, there were bandits aplenty in several of the old forts, noble castles, and caves that dotted the Rift. And the vast majority of them had outstanding warrants for their arrest. Marcurio had made the money to start up his spider-farm from rounding up these louts, bringing them back to Riften, and pocketing their ill-gotten goods for himself. The Jarl, Laila Law-Giver, had found the Cheydinhal notion of community service to reduce a prisoner’s sentence odd, at first. But the prospect of having her city cleaned cheaply had won out over his misgivings.  
  
This ended with Marcurio, ironically, making out like a bandit while being publicly seen as someone cleaning up the Hold. Who knew beating up and stealing from criminals could be fun, rewarding, and politically advantageous? The only downside to this was that the improved economy that resulted from all his efforts ultimately benefited Ulfric Stormcloak, as the Rift could afford to essentially fund the Stormcloak Rebellion as well as feed it.  
  
But in no time at all, the war would be over. Ulfric would be dead, the Rift would return to Imperial rule, and Marcurio would be wed to a literally divine partner. Assuming that the mystery competitor wasn’t in the snatch-and-kill business.  
  
The thought made Marcurio pause on the wooden walkway next to the entrance to the city’s ratway tunnels. “I probably should talk to Vasha, see if anyone’s selling Khajiit in Skyrim.” If the catnapper was in that business, Vasha, the largest buyer and seller of ‘Molagian’ services in the Province would know about it. “Someone should really put a knife in Vasha at some point--but he’s just so charming.”  
  
The ratways were in the process of being cleaned by several ‘community servicers’ so half of it looked damp but well-kept while the other half was overgrown with moss, missing stones in the walls, and filled with skeever nests. Marcurio didn’t hold out hope that the Jarl would ever consent to have them clean the Ragged Flagon, but at least the path there wouldn’t smell of mildew.  
  
The Flagon was built out of an old section of the cistern, disconnected from the pipes so that it could be used as a place of business. A tavern, in the least readily available place in the city, built partially over a deceptively deep pool of water. Rumor was that the barkeep, Vekel the Man, kept slaughterfish in the pool to dispose of bodies of troublemakers. While the Flagon wasn’t popular with the general populace, it was the best place for scoundrels and guards on the take to meet and do business.  
  
Scoundrels such as Delvin Mallory, local information broker, a senior member of the Thieves Guild, and self-proclaimed master of the ‘personal touch’. Marcurio had significantly dropped in Delvin’s esteem since the mage-thief had his personal business sorted, but Marcurio didn’t mind the Breton’s attention focused elsewhere. Except when he might have information.  
  
“Hmm?” The bald, half-drunk, cutpurse considered after Marcurio brought up the information. “The Guild hasn’t done any work in kidnapping for over twenty-five years, and no one’s been able to do it as organized as we have since then neither.” He spoke in a heavy Riften accent, the Ivarstead variant, but Marcurio could find little inconsistencies in his portrayal to know it was put on. “We used to have a bonny lass take care of those jobs, a specialist in non-lethal poisons, ya see, but she an’ the guild had a fallin’ out.”  
  
“Is she dead,” Marcurio asked as if he were speaking of a far more pleasant topic.  
  
“Oh, I bet she wishes she was.” Delvin had himself a good chuckle. “An’ hey, Mercer might just start to like ya iffin you can put a blade in ‘er. Speaking of puttin’ blades in things, how’s that pretty little thing you were gettin’ all them nice presents for?”  
  
Marcurio deftly tapped Delvin on the hand. There was a brief arc of electricity, and suddenly Delvin was on the ground, spasming. In the distance Vex, the burglar specialist and frequent target of Delvin’s advances laughed once before returning to her drink.  
  
“Gods above you’re touchy about that subject,” Delvin muttered once he could speak and move on his own again. “Look, Mercer wants a word with you anyway. Go talk to ‘im, mention this kidnapping thing, and maybe he’ll have some info to share.”  
  
“For the record,” Marcurio commented as he stood from the bar. “The electrocution only happened because I know that you still refuse to believe that Mohamara’s a guy.”  
  
“No male Khajiit alive has cheekbones like that!”  
  
In retrospect, it was a bad idea to share Mohamara’s portrait with the Guild, but at the time Marcurio had been too excited to think straight.  
  
Behind the Flagon, behind the false back of a wardrobe held together with string and his coworker’s anxiety was the proper city cistern, where the Thieves Guild made their base. At least the pool of water in the center of the chamber had a four-way bridge to allow passage, so it was an improvement over the Flagon.  
  
However, Marcurio knew for a verifiable fact that there _were_ slaughterfish in the cistern.  
  
All along the edges of the pool were the junior members of the guild in their brown and grey armors. Marcurio had lifted a special, strongly enchanted, set of Thieves Guild armor from a splinter faction of the Guild that had tried to become competitors in Eastmarch. This let him stand out from the crowd despite being a junior member himself.  
  
Directly opposite the entrance was the ‘office’ of the Guildmaster, Mercer Frey. A weasel-faced sourpuss of a man. The years of hardship for the guild had beaten whatever jolliness had existed in the man firmly out. He had no seat at his desk right next to the Guild Vault, he stood there for hours on end.  
  
Marcurio almost envied his dedication if he didn’t feel sorry for the man’s lower back.  
  
“Good, you’re back.” Mercer snapped his fingers as Marcurio approached and indicated for the Imperial to stand in front of him. “It isn’t difficult to tie the sale of Goldenglow Estate and the financial backer behind Honningbrew together by their symbol. Thus it is safe to say that the Guild isn’t under some hypothetical curse, but we’re being worked against.”  
  
“Actually, I have news about--” Marcurio started but was cut off by Mercer slamming his desk with his hand.  
  
“I am _not done speaking_.” The Breton glared at Marcurio until the Imperial sighed and relented. “Now, one of the names from the documents you retrieved has an alias for one of our suppliers. Gulum-Ei, an Argonian who works in the East Empire Company warehouse in Solitude. I want you to go there, and see what he knows. Talk to Brynjolf if you need more information.” There was a moment of silence after the Guidlmaster talked, during which neither man moved. “You have something to say?”  
  
“As I was saying, I have news about our competitor.” Marcurio crossed his arms and slouched, sure that Mercer would appreciate the information. “I’ve got their gender, race, a physical description, and some insight into their skill set.”  
  
The Breton squinted so much that Marcurio could only tell he hadn’t closed his eyes from the faint glints of light. “Speak.”  
  
“Dark Elf, female, described as incredibly thin, and has skills in kidnapping.”  
  
Mercer’s eyes widened and then proceeded to bulge out of his skull without his expression changing much at all. He gripped the desk so hard that the wood creaked. “Karliah,” he spat the word like it was the worst word of curse he could imagine. “She’s finally returned.” The man stood up straight and pinched the bridge of his nose. “This does not change the assignment--go to Solitude, find out what Galum-Ei knows. But let it slip that we know Karliah is involved.”  
  
“Before I go--if I encounter this Karliah, would you like her brought back to you charbroiled, lightning struck, or on ice?”  
  
Mercer scoffed and returned to leaning on his desk. “Whatever hurts the most.”  
  
“Charbroiled it is!”  
  
\--  
  
A year ago, Faldar’s Tooth had been a ruin. A military fort that eventually became an air-quotes ‘castle’, and then became a ruin after the heavy taxation of Hosgunn Crossed-Daggers. When Marcurio had found it, it was a bandit camp that was host to pit fights with captured wolves. And when his fame became well enough to buy property, the old fort was perfect for his needs.  
  
With Morrowind and Cyrodiil doing poorly, there was a steady flow of both Nibenese and Dunmer coming into Skyrim. However bad the civil war was, it was clearly safer than the madness in their home provinces. These refugees found work and housing in the Tooth and nearby Goldenglow Estate. Between the money being made by the Tooth’s spider-farms and Goldenglow’s honey production, a settlement was starting to form.  
  
Marcurio wondered if his father saw this would he still call his son a glorified cutpurse? The Guild was a hobby, something to spice up his life, but the work going on at the Tooth was something Marcurio could see becoming the core of a life’s work. At least, once the Tooth was repaired and remodeled into a proper castle, and not whatever the Nords _called_ a castle it would be.  
  
Imagine his surprise when he passed through the tents and the in-construction houses that he found no work going on at the Tooth. He’d only meant to stop buy to let his staff know he’d be gone for at least a month going to and from Solitude, and instead would have to pull the ‘big scary boss’ routine. Ugh.  
  
Just past the Tooth’s construction area, he found several of his workers gathered around three men in Imperial scout uniforms, in various states of injury. “What’s all this, folks?”  
  
The Dunmer forewoman of the construction crew, Danayns Tilvothan, glanced over to Maruciro and jerked her head over to the scene. “These fools were running scared from the Imperial camp up near the mountains,” she told him when he approached. “They say a dragon’s decided to roost at Autumnwatch Tower and attacked the camp.”  
  
The three Legion Scouts were quick to confirm her information as true. Marcurio scowled and considered this. From what he’d overheard of Mohamara’s information dump to the Legion, dragons could range for hundreds of miles within a given territory and only the orders of a ‘Thur’, an overlord, could force them into greater population density. This meant that most likely the dragon would eventually decide to predate upon the Tooth.  
  
And that the Empire’s problems became Marcurio’s problems yet again.  
  
“What shall we do with them?” Danayns crossed her arms and gave a red-eyed glare at the scouts. “By the Jarl’s decree, all Imperial soldiers are to be executed on sight.”  
  
“You know, you’re right.” Marcurio nodded solemnly to Danayns while the scouts began to plead for mercy. “ _If_ there were any Imperial soldiers here, we would have to kill them. _If_ the soldiers had foolishly ran east when the Empire’s territory was west of their position, that would be a tragic mistake on their part. Why from here it would take them….” Marcurio paused to look at their injuries before continuing his hypothesis, “about eight days to get to Helgen.” He totally ignored the baffled scouts and snapped his fingers to issue a semi-official decree. “Alright gents, everyone go down to the basement and find an implement with which to kill any Legion soldiers that you see.”  
  
The motley mix of Dunmer and Nibenese Imperials all abandoned their positions in front of the soldiers to enter the Tooth. All three of them stared in bemused horror at the mage-thief while he shrugged his shoulders at them.  
  
“I’m sorry guys. Jarl’s law and all. I’d love to be able to tell you that you could find eight days worth of supplies and healing potions, easily, in _that_ shed right over there,” he pointed at it, because he didn’t trust the intelligence of Legionnaires that ran the wrong direction in enemy territory. “I’d love to be able to tell you that the key is hidden under the lamp on that barrel next to the window. But I can’t tell you because then you’d run away. And if you run away, then my people went and got those weapons to kill you with for nothing.” Once more, he shrugged then turned on his heel and walked toward the Tooth’s main entrance himself. Fortunately, the three scouts picked up on the super fucking obvious hints Marcurio had dropped and were running for the shed.  
  
Marcurio made his way down to the old arena where wolves would be made to fight to the death for sport one year prior. Now it was the site of the silk-weavers who turned spider-silk into thread and then into yards of silk to be sold across Skyrim. In a few weeks time the first full-time tailors for the Tooth would arrive from Morrowind, and then they could begin to fashion clothes of their own.  
  
In the old cashier’s cage was the steward of the keep and the settlement outside, an elderly Dunmer man who wrote in the settlement’s ledger with tortoise-like slowness.  
  
“Ganoi,” Marcurio said into an old Nord warhorn so that the steward could hear him even with his hearing loss. “I’ll be gone for a month, do you have enough gold to cover that?”  
  
Long after Marcurio finished talking, Ganoi Nilereloth finished entering a ‘four’ into the ledger and looked up at him and nodded slowly. The poor man had had his tongue cut out as a boy, and Marcurio had only recently hired an Alchemist who could make regeneration potions. By the time the mage-thief got back, the mummed Dunmer might be at one-hundred percent for his twilight years.  
  
“Alright, good. You’re in charge until I get back.”  
  
Marcurio was long gone to check on the status of several yards of velvet before leaving by the time Ganoi gave him a thumb’s up to indicate he’d heard the order.  
  
\--  
The dragon that had previously roosted in Autumnwatch Tower tore a trench in the ground as it was brought down to Nirn. It was a frost dragon, primarily white in color with intimidating black spines along its backbone and a mix of grey and white for its wings. At the time, its coloration was marred by several scorch marks of varying size.  
  
“So, here’s an idea,” Marcurio commented as he literally skipped around the dragon with fire trailing from his hands and a magical glow in his eyes. “I’m going to guess you’re either new to existing or found a way to come back into existence after being dead. Neither of those things should endear you to being dead.”  
  
The dragon breathed heavily as it forced itself out from the pile of dirt that had buried its head. Frost dragons, as it turned out, were weak to fire. And while Marcurio’s specialty was lightning, he had a natural _gift_ with explosions.  
  
“I’ll make you an offer. You come to work for me, and I won’t kill you.” He easily lept away when the dragon snapped at him. “Going to have to be quicker than that! And, you know I can kill you. You have to, I mean I just blasted you out of the sky within seconds of you leaving your roost. How could you _not_ see how this fight would go if we kept it up?”  
  
But the dragon refused to submit and breathed a wintry gale down at the Imperial. Fortunately, the dragon couldn’t turn the Shout quickly enough to keep up with Marcurio skipping around it. And a fireball to the side of the jaw put an end to the Shout, leaving the dragon exhausted on the ground.  
  
“So what’s it going to be? Die free, or live in servitude for a while?”  
  
At last, the dragon spoke. “Foolish joor. I am free neither way. Either I die to Alduin Thuri later or die to you now. Death is certain either way.” It panted from the wounds that covered its body, ice-blue eyes glinting with fury.  
  
“Let me rephrase, then.” Marcurio grinned like a madman and gathered a ball of fire in his hand while he stood out of lunging range for the dragon. “Now, or later?”  
  
The dragon continued to pant, and looked into the mortal’s eye and found therein something familiar, a look not unlike some of its kin. But it was only freshly brought back to life--the wind under its wings had been too gentle, and the scent of Keizaal too sweet. It could not bear to be parted from that again. “...Later.”  
  
Fire instead became healing light as the dragon’s wounds were reversed. Were it a more vicious thing, like Od-Ah-Viing, perhaps it would have tried to attack again. But it felt… respect for how the mortal had torn it from the sky in literal seconds after issuing the challenge.  
  
“Glad to have you with us…?”  
  
“Kip-Gol-Sik,” the dragon hissed.  
  
“Ah! A dragon name I can actually pronounce, how wonderful.”  
  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, if he can't talk how do they know his name? *cue X-files music*


	31. Maw--Wrath--Build

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Words, words, words, words, words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I just realized that this fic actually contains lots of religious discourse. Kinda neat.

  
\---  
**Chapter 31: Maw--Wrath--Build**  
  
High Hrothgar was a fortress built into the slopes of Kyne’s sacred mountain--the Throat of the World. From what Yagraz could gather from small stone shrines built into the side of the mountain, there had been a big ideological debate over the use of the Thu’um when the monastery was created--namely that ancient Tongues faced their first defeat and had an existential crisis about it. Clearly, there were no Orc Tongues at the time or all that crap would have been beaten out of them like impurities out of steel. She could respect using the Voice only in emergencies, or use it exclusively to honor the gods. What she couldn’t respect was committing to pacifism after _one_ defeat.  
  
But that was a beef to settle with the founder of the order, probably long dead by even the Fourth Era. Those who had come to the order afterward were free of blame in that regard.  
  
Back in the Twenty-First Era, the Thu’um was another aspect of magic to be taught. It technically branched off of Mysticism since it shouted the concept of things into existence and allowed for magical effects that only Mysticism could reproduce. But the practice was heavily regulated as a result, and Yagraz could only afford to license for one Thu’um. She went with a good, versatile Shout that would serve her well in a fight and at home.  
  
Good old Yol-Toor-Shul. Great for barbecues, clearing the sidewalk of snow, and drying clothes on top of the applications for violence.  
  
It had taken her ages to learn the metaphysical concepts well enough to have fine control of the Shout, which was why her being Dragonborn was such a surprise. Normally Dragonborn learned the components of a Shout instinctively, there was even an advanced course exclusively for Dragonborn at Jorrvaskr, but no Dragonborn had been around for centuries to take it.  
  
This, in turn, made her wonder if the technique Malacath had taught her to Break the Dragon had caused a change in her. She’d have to ask Malacath on his summoning day.  
  
But that was far away, and at the present, she still had over three thousand steps to climb to reach High Hrothgar. On her back was an additional pack of supplies for the Greybeards, because they relied on charitable donations from the people below. The same people they isolated themselves from by living on the Throat of the World in the first place--the same people whose suffering they would ignore in favor of their own spirituality.  
  
The Companion paused on the road to take a deep breath. She had to let the millennia-old discourse about the Greybeards go, or she’d risk exploding on people who perhaps not even aware there was an issue. However, there was a brief outlet for her aggression when she encountered a frost troll--a lumbering triclopian animal rather like an ape of some kind, with powerful regenerative abilities that could only be diminished with fire.  
  
Fire Yagraz was happy to provide. The heat from her Shout melted all the snow within fifty feet and perhaps would have started an avalanche had the area not been particularly rocky. All too soon, the troll was dead and Yagraz had to go back to brooding while she walked the seven-thousand-steps.  
  
Skjor was dead. He had taken a whelp with him, a strong Nord woman named Uthgerd, with him to help clear out the bandits at Gallows Rock at the request of the Eastmarch nobleman that owned it. Everyone in the Circle knew it was a Silver Hand hideout, so Aela and Yagraz had been sent as reinforcements. What they didn’t know was that the Silver Hand also had a new recruit--Krev the Skinner. A Redguard sword saint, who took the veteran Companion down with ease.  
  
Uthgerd was mighty, and she had rage inside her that Yagraz respected. And with Skjor gone she was alone and surrounded by enemies--ironically, the best place for a berserker. When Aela and Yagraz had arrived, it was to block the escape of close to two dozen fleeing Silver Hand, being pursued by an angry redheaded Nord. When they asked her how Skjor had died, she had only one thing to say: “I used a shield, he didn’t.” And sure enough, when they found him, his wounds reflected that.  
  
Krev the Skinner was found nearby with her face identifiable, and a nick in her silver sword that corresponded to a fresh mark in Uthgerd’s skyforge steel shield. That Yagraz’s sword-and-board style was vindicated did little to overcome the sting of a lost shield-brother. Skjor’s death was made all the more painful by the battle of Whiterun that happened less than a week later, and the glory of fighting and killing a dragon.  
  
Mirmulnir’s bones and scales were given to Adrianne Avenicci, the steward’s daughter; Yagraz had the benefit of history to know exactly whom would figure out how to make arms and armor from dragon components. Adrianne was a blacksmith by trade, and because Eorlund’s sons had no skill with the forge, eventually to have the honor of working the Skyforge. While Yagraz had skill with metal, it was several thousand years too early to be useful as a blacksmith. Welding, machining, and airship mechanic work wouldn’t be useful until that Altmer out in Markarth invented the airship in two hundred years or so.  
  
But if dragons continued to show up, eventually Adrianne would make the key breakthrough and earn her place as the Companions’ smith. Ideally, before old Eorlund died so his pride could chafe against the Colovian’s rampant humility and his sons could cry foul about a woman showing them up. Then their sister would finally have a reason to complain about sexism in Whiterun.  
  
Imagining the drama that would unfold when that eventually came to pass kept Yagraz properly distracted until she stood before the grandiose monastery on the side of Kyne’s sacred mountain. She dropped the goods off in the black iron chest out front and made her way up the stairs. A monastery of stone had no business with bronze doors, but if she focused on the hypocrisy she would end up punching an elderly Nord in the teeth and that _was not_ going to be helpful.  
  
Sure enough, when the Greybeards assembled to greet her inside the monastery, they were all extremely old Nords. Most of them couldn’t speak because their Voices had escaped their control.  
  
“Shout at us, Dragonborn,” said their spokesman, Arngeir. “Let us taste your Voice.”  
  
“You really don’t want me to do that,” Yagraz said, waving a hand. “You really, _aggressively_ , don’t.”  
  
“I’m afraid that we do. We must feel the strength of your Thu’um to know how much there is to teach you.” The elderly Nord gave her a warm smile. “But your concern for our welfare is appreciated.”  
  
She looked at them, expressionless, then shrugged. “Alright. But you asked for it.”  
  
The warm smile on Arngeir face vanished the moment he heard the word ‘Yol’ pass the Orc’s lips and felt like he was standing in front of a furnace. Then the second Word came and the stone beneath his feet grew hot. Finally, the third Word brought with it a stream of white-hot fire that necessitated all of the elderly monks to dive away from. Where they had stood was now cherry-red rocks in the process of fusing together from the heat.  
  
“Ah,” he said once he stood once more. “That was… far stronger than I had anticipated.”  
  
“I did warn you,” Yagraz was quick to point out.  
  
“You did, and I foolishly did not listen.” The other Greybeards gave Arngeir scolding looks, which the youngest Greybeard had to admit he deserved. “The strength of your Thu’um cannot be denied, and neither can your dedication. To have learned an entire Shout before even coming before us, I must admit I’m astonished.”  
  
The Companion shrugged. “I studied for years to get that thing under control, which was why I didn’t think I could possibly be Dragonborn. Maybe I’m sort of like an Alessia thing where I _am_ Dragonborn, but don’t get some of the powers.”  
  
The Greybeards consulted one another to ponder this development. “It isn’t _impossible_ ,” Arngeir admitted after whispering with them. “But the fault could be in your tutors. Not all teaching methods are equal.”  
  
Yagraz, having learned the Thu’um from a pre-recorded series of lectures as the professor, unfortunately, couldn’t leave his hospital bed, couldn’t refute the possibility.  
  
“We will test your ability to learn a new Shout to see if this is truly an absent aspect of being Dragonborn, or merely a fault of poor teaching.” Arngeir stood away from the other Greybeards to Shout a word onto the walls of the monastery. ‘Fus’. “This is the first word of Unrelenting Force, a less… directly harmful Shout. Go ahead and see if you can learn it.”  
  
As it turned out, the fault either had been with learning the Thu’um from videos or that Yagraz had only recently become a Dragonborn. She learned all three words of Unrelenting Force, Spectral Clone, and the second word of Whirlwind Sprint with no problem.  
  
“I think it is safe to say you have all the powers of a Dragonborn, Dragonborn,” Arngeir commented with a pleased expression. “Now, we have a task we would like you to--”  
  
“Hold up.” Yagraz held up a hand to stop Arngeir’s little spiel. “Before you give me things to do, I have a request. Do you know any Shouts that help you to find things? Or people? If you don’t want to teach me it right away, fine, but I kinda need some help in that way.”  
  
“The finding of things?” Arngeir scratched his chin and looked at the other Greybeards with a questioning look. When none gave him a positive response, he shook his head sadly. “It doesn’t seem so. But, as you come to learn the Words of Power, perhaps you could create such a Shout. A peaceful use of the Thu’um would be a welcome addition to our records.”  
  
For the teaching of Whirlwind Sprint, the Greybeards had brought Yagraz out to a courtyard behind the monastery. There was a tower disconnected from the main structure and two free-standing archways. One led further up the mountain, to the summit, but was blocked by snow and spectral ice wraiths, and the other seemed to be all that remained of another building.  
  
So they were in the prime position to hear a distant dragon roar, below them in elevation. Yagraz’s hand went to her ax instinctively, but the Greybeards paid it no mind.  
  
“Anyway, to complete your initiation we would like you to retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, our founder. You may find his tomb in the swamps of Hjaalmarch, but I’m afraid we cannot direct you further. If you have questions about other subjects, feel free to ask anytime, Dragonborn.” With a final bow, the four Greybeards parted ways, leaving Yagraz to stand in the snow.  
  
Then the dragon roared again, closer this time, and everyone stopped. It was closer, and in a moment they could hear distant wingbeats. Moments later, a winged white blur flew up over the edge of the courtyard and roared as it twisted in the air. Yagraz knew the dragon’s type by color--only frost dragons had primarily white scales, so her standard fire breath would be greatly effective on it.  
  
But rather than sweep the group a couple times, it came around for a landing and planted itself down at the largest patch of open space. The Greybeards and Companion stared at the white dragon, and neither took any action.  
  
Until Marcurio tilted his head out from behind one of the dragon’s ink-black backbone spines. “You done with your meeting with the Greybeards? Cause we can come back in like an hour or something if you need the extra time.” The Imperial’s shit-eating grin was visible even from a distance.  
  
“You… know that man?” Arngeir asked of Yagraz, hesitant and slightly concerned.  
  
“He’s my best friend’s SO,” the giant Orc muttered and made her way over to the dragon and rider. “How long have you had a dragon that lets you fucking ride them?!” Yagraz’s tone was of absolute outrage. Dragons were always so picky about whom they let ride with them, because of their inborn arrogance.  
  
“Iunno,” Marcurio shrugged. “Like… thirty-minutes? Three-quarters of an hour?”  
  
“I am Kipgolsik,” the dragon muttered, clearly unhappy with the arrangement. “And you are Dragonborn--I heard your Thu’um from far below, sister.”  
  
“Hey man. Um, I’m told there is a tradition when dragons first meet?” The Orc pushed her index fingers into each other, suddenly realizing how difficult it would be not to kill the dragon in so doing. “Like, we breathe fire on each other?”  
  
“Nid, Dovhakiin. No, Dragonborn.” Kipgolsik gently shook his head back and forth.  
  
“I speak dovahzul if that’s easier for you.”  
  
“Ah yes, then let us speak as the dov do.”  
  
Kipgolsik explained that his sub-species of dragons, frost dragons, eschewed the greeting ritual of breathing fire upon each other to see whose Thu’um had the mastery. In fact, many frost dragons did not partake of the larger dragon community or Tamriel life altogether. Most had made their roosts in Atmorah, where the ice was plentiful, and they could use their frigid nature to sculpt the very terrain. They were, comparatively, asocial dragons.  
  
“Forgive me, Dovahkiin,” Kipgolsik said in Tamrielic once he was finished explaining. “But I grow weary of tinvaak, and I fear my… lord would grow agitated were we to talk longer.”  
  
“I’ve actually found it fascinating to hear the dragon language spoken with two fluent people,” the mage-thief commented with a smile. “While by no means a _beautiful_ language, I certainly get how it inspired old Nordic.”  
  
Yagraz stuck her tongue out at him, and he did so back.  
  
“Anyway, after I wrangled Kippy here--”  
  
“Please do not call me that,” Kipgolsik pleaded.  
  
“After I wrangled Golly here--”  
  
“That is even worse.”  
  
“ _Fine!_ ” Marcurio threw his hands up in frustration. “Nicknames can come later! After I wrangled _this primadona_ , I thought: ‘Hmm, a flying creature would be beneficial for traveling around and looking for our missing cat’.”  
  
“Sounds good, you got any leads?” Yagraz wasted no time in hopping up onto the dragon.  
  
\--  
  
Gulum-Ei had been used to the Guild being a distant thing, ever since Gallus died they seemed to have lost their luster and their grip in Solitude grew weaker every day. It got so bad that eventually he flat out told Mercer Frey that their business relationship was concluded--Gulum-Ei simply wasn’t getting enough back for what he was giving to the Guild. Mercer accepted the end of their arrangement, and Gulum-Ei thought that would be the end of it.  
  
He wasn’t the smartest Argonian around.  
  
So when a Thieves Guild flunky he’d never seen, and the legendary warrior Yagraz of the Companions showed up, he was actually surprised. He was even more surprised when they each grabbed one of Gulum-Ei’s arms and frog-marched him out of Solitude altogether with the city guards too afraid to intervene.  
  
“Gulum-Ei--am I pronouncing that right, by the way?” The Thieves Guild man spoke with a casual tone like they were conducting business. “Mercer Frey sent me up here to ask you some questions.”  
  
“I-I told Mercer, our business is concluded!” Gulum-Ei’s stubbornness made him unwilling to realize the obvious implications.  
  
“Hmm, I get that. I don’t think it’s a particularly _healthy_ life decision, but I understand it. The Guild’s not doing so hot, bleeding money, bleeding people, it’s a sound business decision to withdraw.”   
  
The two of them kept marching Gulum-Ei down to the wharf, with the guards there usually looking from the Argonian ‘boot’ then to Yagraz, a respected member of the Companions, and electing not to interfere.  
  
“But then you went and started working with our _competitors,_ Gulum-Ei.” The Thieves Guild pretty boy shook his head, sorrowful. “And see, Mercer was okay with letting you go legit. But seeing someone else? I’m afraid he’s a bit too possessive for that.” They reached the shore of the Karth River delta and stopped. “Working with _Karliah?_ Did you think he wouldn’t find out?”  
  
Gulum-Ei’s heart went a mile a minute as the secret he’d kept closer than anything else in his illegal business was revealed. There was no point in being stubborn anymore, Karliah’s involvement being known meant that it was quite likely that Mercer had ordered Gulum-Ei put down. But… how would they do it? Drowning? He was an Argonian, he could breathe underwater. A horrifying thought chilled Gulum-Ei’s heart to the core. Would they tie him to a rock, and leave him to starve to death in the water? Frantic, he looked for a way out of this situation that kept either side he’d been working with from doing something drastic.  
  
“Y-you can’t! I’m the only contact with the East Empire Company you have!” The Argonian’s mouth twisted into a smile, certain he’d found his saving grace. “If you kill me, I won’t be able to do business with you again!”  
  
“He’s got a point,” the Companion muttered.  
  
And for a while, it looked like Gulum-Ei was going to go free, with the Thieves Guild member nodded and looking agitated. But then his agitated look became a malevolent smile. “Does the name Orthus Endario ring a bell, Gulum-Ei?”  
  
The Argonian’s stomach dropped like a stone. Endario was the East Empire Company’s Windhelm branch manager, equal in rank to Vittoria Vici in Solitude. Until recently, his office had been a joke to the Company, but with the destruction of the Blood Horkers, they had started to make money again. Even worse, with the market in that area starved for goods, they could charge a premium to make up lost revenue.  
  
“Oh, so it _does._ ” The Thieves Guild member tapped Gulum-Ei on the shoulder consolingly. “See, Mercer would _love_ to have two East Empire Company insiders to help the Guild out. But… we only _need_ one.”  
  
Gulum-Ei was going to die. His breathing grew unsteady as he realized this, he was going to _die_ and there was nothing he could do to stop it.  
  
“But on the other hand….”  
  
The Argonian locked eyes with the Thieves Guild member, not even minding the vicious look on the man’s face.  
  
“If you were willing to _tell me_ where Karliah is, I could talk Mercer into giving you a second chance. Or else….” The man snapped his fingers, and the method of Gulum-Ei’s death was revealed.  
  
It rose from the water like a sea serpent, at first with only a decently large head revealed. But as it drew closer to the shore, more of the beast became visible. The wicked black spines on its back, the wings far too small to fly without magic, the intelligence that shown in its eyes. A dragon.  
  
Since _when_ did the Thieves Guild have a dragon as an attack dog?!  
  
When it breathed, the rumble was so strong Gulum-Ei could feel it in his bones. Without warning, the beast opened its mouth and snagged one of Gulum-Ei’s legs and started to _pull_ on the Argonian. Neither Yagraz of the Companions or the Thieves Guild representative let go of Gulum-Ei’s arms and so he was held aloft by the two. It wasn’t biting down hard enough to amputate his leg, for which Gulum-Ei would have been grateful were he not so close to panicking.  
  
“Well, Gulum-Ei? What’s it going to be?”  
  
It only took the pressure on his leg increasing _ever so slightly_ to get the Argonian to spill the beans. All he knew was that Karliah had approached him to purchase Goldenglow Estate on her behalf, and paid handsomely. He told the thief where the deed was on his person, in order to convince him. And lastly, all he knew about her location was: ‘Where the end began’.  
  
He never even thought to mention that Karliah had killed the previous Guildmaster, from the lengths that the Guild was going to punish him, he expected the Guild representative to know already.  
  
With another snap of the Guild representative’s fingers, the dragon curtly dropped Gulum-Ei’s leg, and the Companion released him as well, causing the Argonian to fall into the water.  
  
“Listen to me, Gulum-Ei,” the Guild representative said with an expression almost portrait perfect for Maven Black-Briar. “Until Mercer okays your second chance, you’re on the chopping block. You’re no longer irreplaceable to the Guild, you’ve cavorted with our enemies, and in so doing burned up any goodwill you had with us. My advice is to make yourself _incredibly_ useful, so we can forgive you faster.” He held the Argonian’s shaky gaze for a long moment, before verbally snapping. “Go!”  
  
And Gulum-Ei went, he ran like his life depended on it, because for all he knew it did. Over his shoulder, he heard the same Guild representative call after him in a sing-song voice:  
  
“Blessings of the Eight upon you!”  
  
\--  
  
“You know,” Marcurio said while he carefully folded up and pocketed the Goldenglow Estate deed. It would make a fine addition to his collection of property--and right next door to what he already had! “I half expected you to object to this plan, honor and all.”  
  
Yagraz snorted and crossed her arms. “Honor demands we face our problems head-on. Square up to the challenge, overcome it, and bask in victory. And that is what you did here.” She gestured to Kipgolsik to illustrate the point. “Putting the fear of death into people who are used to being untouchable is sort of… a specialty of mine. You get on my good side, and I’ll tell you about the time I made Torbjorn Shatter-Shield wet himself in front of all his workers.”  
  
“I have found that I rather enjoy swimming,” Kipgolsik commented.  
  
“Good for you, big guy.”  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter becomes funnier if you imagine Yagraz, Marcurio, and Kipgolsik as expies for TFS's portrayal of Androids 18 through 16 respectively. Or at least it was funnier to write that way.


	32. By the Fireside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god so much talking!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Organic beings aren't meant to have Spheres. They don't have the higher-level mental capacity by default to regulate the raw amount of power in even the smallest one, inevitably leading to a catastrophic meltdown.

 

  
\---  
**Chapter 32: By the Firelight**  
  
As it turned out, while dragons needed neither food or air, they did need to sleep. So Kipgolsik found a relatively safe roost at a mountain called Skyborn Altar, overlooking the ruined city of Bromjunaar. Marcurio knew that when the city was built, by the dragon cult in ancient times, the Altar was used as where the dragon priests would receive the demands of their dragon overlords. The last of whom, Durnehviir, lay entombed in the city’s ancient fortress.  
  
No one, not even other dragons at the time, was sure how he had died. The only clue was that the legendary dragon was researching necromancy at the time--enough to make a deal with the Ideal Masters. Marcurio had always thought that the dragon, like so many before and since had been swindled by the Masters and lost his life from it.  
  
Which was precisely why Marcurio hadn’t delved into Conjuration--too many ways for him to end up as a meat tree, or worse. And it was precisely that lack of Conjuration skill, or the impetus to learn that had drawn Sheogorath to consider the Imperial for a match with his son. No skill in Conjuration meant that Marcurio had little chance to bind Mohamara to his will, and no impetus meant that it likely would never develop.  
  
Macurio’s words to the Lady of Infinite Energies when she had her audience with him were still as true when he sat the edge of Skyborn Altar as they’d been high above Nirn’s surface. ‘If I wanted a slave, I could go to Morrowind and buy one.’  
  
And it was why, if this ‘Karliah’ had decided to trade his betrothed to Vasha, he was going to turn her inside out before he killed her.  
  
To distract himself from thoughts of violence that would get him nowhere without an acceptable target readily available, he pulled the pink cocoon out from his satchel bag to examine it. The silk construct had grown, swollen from within by the creature’s growth. His initial guess that it had been close to hatching seemed inaccurate if its growth followed the trend so far.  
  
“Hey, slick,” Yagraz said as she came over to the Altar’s edge where Marcurio sat. “Fire’s ready for your personal touch.”  
  
The thief-mage glanced over his shoulder at the stack of wood the Companion had arranged, and with a gesture, set it alight. Both of them then made their way to the fireside to warm up and prepare for their own sleep. Marcurio considered the possibility that Kipgolsik would flee once he was away, but that hadn’t been the case when both he and Yagraz had to leave the dragon in the water to fetch Gulum-Ei.  
  
Yagraz sighed like she had something heavy to say, so Marcurio snapped out of his musings to give her his attention. “We shouldn’t tell short-stuff Meridia’s his mom,” she said, seeming glum about it.  
  
“...And why is that?” Marcurio arched a brow, curious but also guarded.  
  
“Because once he finds out that she’s his mom, he’ll have to resolve all the shitty things she let happen. And part of that will be you.” She gestured toward him with her head, no reaction in her face to the sudden, visible, affront on the Imperial's.  
  
“ _Excuse me_?”  
  
“You saw how he was when the two of you first started talking, said it was almost a panic attack?” Yagraz crossed her legs, pulled out a whetstone from her bag and began to sharpen her ax. “You can be the best damn thing that’s happened in his life, doesn’t make it any less shitty that Sheogorath and Meridia did it now.”  
  
On the one hand, Marcurio found himself insulted that he could be used in the same sentence as the word ‘shitty’, on another hand he understood how being given no say in the matter wouldn’t endear him to Mohamara or the cat’s friends, and on a third hand he couldn’t help the phrasing the giant Orc had used. “Now? As opposed to… earlier?”  
  
The Companion nodded. “Meridian kids, they start young on the marrying side of things. Nine years old, they all get in their Sundas best and go see the community matchmaker, if they got one. By twelve, they usually have a match lined up and they spend all the time between then and age eighteen getting to know and love one another.”  
  
Marcurio knew his betrothed to be twenty-one and being _Meridia’s_ son, he couldn’t imagine how the cat had gone so long without a match. It visibly perplexed him. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”  
  
Again, the Companion nodded. “I’ve known short-stuff since I was seven, he was six. I was there when he got all dolled up for the matchmaker along with all the other Meridian kids. Neither of us knew exactly what would happen, we were kids.”  
  
The heart-to-heart conversation was interrupted by Kipgolsik cutting the cheese up on the ancient roost of Durnehviir. The wind caught it and immediately carried it down to them, and produced a number of effects. Both Orc and Imperial gagged and struggled to find a way to shield themselves from the smell, the fire struggled to remain alight, and a nearby bird straight up died.  
  
Marcurio saved the day by using Alteration to fashion one of the waiting bits of firewood into two clothespins for Yagraz and him to block their noses off with.  
  
“Anyway,” Yagraz resumed with a heavily modified voice from the clothespin on her nose. “I had a big ol’ family, full of love growin’ up. I had a Pa, a Ma, sisters for days, and aunts, uncles, and cousins as far as the eye could see. An’ we loved each other, looked out for each other, all that.” The Orc’s sharpening of her ax became more aggressive in response to her building temper. “Short-stuff didn’t have no one but me. Every foster family he got sent him back to the temple in a week or less--something always came up.”  
  
Marcurio noted this information away and ensured the cocoon that was apparently made of his betrothed’s arm was wrapped up properly in the wolf pelt.  
  
“Gettin’ a match was his one chance at getting another person who’d love ‘im. As we got older, we figured that out more an’ more.” She stopped her weapon sharpening altogether and glared into the fire, hateful as Marcurio had ever seen anybody. “I was there when that withered old _witch_ of a Matchmaker told short-stuff that it was never gonna happen, and he ought to just get used to bein’ alone. Or keep trying, and get matched with someone who’d treat him like a punching bag.”  
  
“That’s--,” Marcurio paused in his response as he heard his own voice affected by the pinched nose. It was so bizarre that it worked a chuckle from the Orc. “That’s cruel. Why didn’t he break tradition, and look for someone the old fashioned way?”  
  
For a second, Yagraz looked at Marcurio like he was stupid, but her expression relaxed after a moment. “Cause by that time, he’d spent most of his life being treated like a stuffed toy by some people, and an easy target for others. The boy’s not even four feet tall and stopped growing at thirteen, you can probably picture how it would turn out.”  
  
The wind had blown for so long, that Marcurio dared take the clothespin off his nose to breathe again. He regretted this decision, as the smell lingered on. Naturally, the clothespin went back on his nose.  
  
“Point is, I spent half as much time rescuing that cat from pranks and folks cuddling him half to death as hangin’ out with him.” Her expression became distant. “Maybe I got some blame in how hard he’s had it here; I was always there to rescue him when he needed it, he never had to fight.”  
  
Marcurio thought the same but knew better than to speak of it. Yagraz had an ax in her hand, freshly sharpened, after all.  
  
“So what do you think he thinks of this? Bein’ told that he wasn’t worth lovin’ back when he was new and almost happy, then having you shoved on him after what’s been, objectively, the worst part of his life?” She leaned forward so that the fire cast an ominous shadow on her face. “By folks that say they loved him but didn’t walk the walk when it counted?”  
  
“He probably thinks this is all one big joke at his expense,” Marcurio answered honestly. “Probably thinks that his misery is the only way he’s valuable to anyone. But… why would telling him Meridia is his mother make this worse?”  
  
“Cause when he hears that, he’ll stop.” Yagraz snapped her fingers. “Like that, he’ll shut down. Meridia’s been the one constant thing in his life, even I can’t say different. When the priests said it was her will, he did it. To hear it from him, she loves him almost as much as I do. But she’s a _Daedra_ , she doesn’t really _care_ about nobody but herself.” She leaned back and looked up at the stars. “You tell him his mama was okay with all that bad stuff, and that she approved this ‘joke at his expense’, he’ll give up. Might go off the deep end, more likely he’ll just become a shell of what he is now. Lights on, nobody home. Sheogorath probably _wants_ that to happen.”  
  
The turn of phrase didn’t quite gel with Marcurio at first, but from the context clues, he pieced together its meaning. Being alive, but not _feeling_ alive. He knew how that had felt from experience, and while he knew it could be recovered from wouldn’t wish it on anyone. “I think I can see the Mad God’s plan, then, if he wanted to replace Meridia in Mohamara’s heart. Give him everything she didn’t, and let the disparity tear his mind apart.”  
  
“And Meridia’s probably so sure that short-stuff loves her, she’d never think to keep Sheogorath’s influence at bay.” Yagraz’s leaning backward became laying down on the stone. “Not a bad strategy, overall.”  
  
“Precisely why I found the Mad God’s threats more intimidating, honestly.”  
  
\--  
  
The thief meditated on what to do with his betrothed once he and Yagraz found him, then returned him to the Legion. Would Mercer allow him to take time away from the Guild to court Mohamara properly, and be courted in turn? Could the Tooth survive without his management for however long that would take?  
  
Perhaps reserving the courtship for after the marriage would be the best choice, as then they could have ample time to get to know one another. Perhaps he ought to assassinate Ulfric Stormcloak and put an end to the Rebellion as soon as possible? Once the war was over, Mohamara would be free of the Legion and could stay in the Rift with Marcurio.  
  
It was with a stunning realization that Marcurio put together that he had stopped caring about the vengeance he would exact upon the cat’s kidnapper, and focused more on his welfare. While Kipgolsik took them from Skyborn Altar to the Rift, Marcurio pondered on this more.  
  
What would be the best way to help his betrothed come to trust him? Revealing his own sordid past? Inviting the cat into his business, or perhaps the Guild? No, he decided. Mohamara would never steal, per his own words he’d been on the bad end of theft before. The Imperial, sadly, had to admit that perhaps showering the cat in presents would not be the most optimal route.  
  
He was still going to do it, because he’d spent _far_ too much on the stuff already to _not_ , but it would be because he wanted to. His meditation done, he focused on shallower thoughts to bring him back to full reality. Such as how Mohamara would look in pearls, and which color would look the best.  
  
“I don’t think your boss will like someone as big-ticket as me coming into your secret hideout,” Yagraz commented as they approached the Rift Plateau. “And that the Riften guards won’t particularly like that I helped kill a bunch of Stormcloaks at the battle of Whiterun.”  
  
“They will respect that you fought for your home, and be afraid of challenging you. Fear not, for they won’t approach you if you don’t approach them first.”  
  
Yagraz shrugged and nodded a bit. “Eh, that’s not too bad. Good work, slick.”  
  
“Um, Yagraz,” Marcurio said as he realized it as well. “I didn’t say anything.”  
  
“...Brother?”  
  
“I also did not speak, sister,” the dragon replied.  
  
“I am not coming out while you are flying,” said a voice from in Marcurio’s satchel bag. “You will toss me, and that will hurt.”  
  
Elation colored Marcurio’s entire mood while he brought the satchel around to his front and bent down to look inside. A pink crab claw immediately reached out and pinched his nose, yet quickly released it when Marcurio reflexively pulled back.  
  
“And do not look in, either. My exoskeleton is not fully hardened yet, have some respect.”  
  
Kipgolsik made a water landing in Lake Honrich near the Tooth, where Yagraz and Marcurio got off to deal with the pink thing in the satchel bag. While neither needed him, the dragon swam around with his wings tucked close to his sides, looking for all the world like an oversized and scaly swan.  
  
“I still can’t believe he’s buoyant,” Yagraz snarked as she watched the dragon swim away. “But! We got a new friend to meet, right?”  
  
“My exoskeleton is hardened,” the voice in the bag said. “I’m ready to come out if neither of you kicks me into the water.”  
  
“If you can tell how the guards will feel about Yagraz,” Marcurio commented as he set the satchel down, “why can’t you tell how we will react?”  
  
“Riften’s guards are easier to predict, you two are harder because you’re so tightly wound up with the Master’s.”  
  
Once the flap to the satchel was thrown open, and both parties stepped away, something began to crawl out. It had eight legs, four on each side; covered in pink fuzz with curved lines of pale gray-blue, and jagged lightning patterns of pale lime green. When they saw it, both had the same thought: That the creature was a mix of a spider and a crab. It had crab claws as its primary limbs in the front, on either side of its mouth, but a spidery set of eight eyes to see all directions. The abdomen was flat but thick, relative to the rest of the body, with spinnerets on the end. Two long limbs tipped with long hairs that resembled feathers sprung up from where the thorax and abdomen met. Overall, it was the size of a housecat but far stranger.  
  
“Hello,” it said once it was free of the sack. Each of the bipeds listening to it heard the voice of the other from it. “Thank you for not squishing me earlier. That would have delayed my growth. And when I was fully developed I would have pinched you to death.” It clacked its claws like castanets.  
  
“What… in the Ashpit are _you_?” Yagraz asked she decided to be horrified, amused, or sickened by what she was seeing.  
  
“I am Yehochanan, first of my Master’s servitors.” The Daedric creature tilted forward a bit, perhaps in a bow. “My format is dot-com, and my function is to assist in the internal regulation of his sphere.”  
  
“You are quite possibly the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen,” Marcurio couldn’t help but squeal a bit as he advanced on the Daedric spider to pick it up.  
  
However, it lept backward and raised up its abdomen to display a threatening pattern of gray-blue and lime green while its claws extended out. “I am a piece of my Master, and you are forbidden from touching me without asking permission.” Yehochanan clacked its claws like castanets once more. “So ask before picking me up.”  
  
“May I pick you up?” Marcurio was frozen in the midst of doing just that, his excitement not diminished at all by the pause in his action.  
  
“You may.”  
  
Yagraz watched in fascination as the grown man acted like a little girl with her first kitten as he cuddled the spider-crab Daedra. “So… don’t suppose you can tell us where short-stuff is?”  
  
Yehochanan’s longest limbs adjusted position like a vintage scrying orb’s receivers before they settled in a northward direction. “I detect him moving toward Winterhold.” The spider-crab pinched Marcurio on the hand gently to get his attention. “You want to tell Mercer what you found out, it’s Important that you do.”  
  
“Why,” the Imperial squinted down at the Daedric creature, “would Mercer _care_?”  
  
“He will want to pursue Karliah alongside you, and will attempt to kill you once it is done.” Yehochanan clacked its claws like castanets a third time. “You have grown too mighty, too successful. Your continued existence threatens his plans. But if you don’t let him act first, he will use it to justify killing you.”  
  
“How can you possibly _know_ these things?” Yagraz pinched the bridge of her nose while she asked the question. Already she knew the answer, _magic_.  
  
“I have appropriated some of my Master’s higher level functions to keep his sphere from going into meltdown while I am not there to help regulate it.” Yehochanan’s spidery face was inscrutable, but it gestured with its claws and antenna-things to emote. “His captor only required rudimentary Mysticism functions, so I could safely appropriate the higher functions without putting him at risk.”  
  
“Are you saying you _stole_ Mohamara’s strongest magic?”  
  
Both bipeds looked at the Daedric spider-crab as it froze in Marcurio’s arms--the Orc in confusion and the Imperial in interest.  
  
“It sounds bad when you say it like that,” Yehochanan responded. “But to avoid a catastrophic meltdown, it was necessary. I will return the Master’s functions when we find him.”  
  
“You stay with the spider-thing,” Marcurio said as he held Yehochanan out to Yagraz. “I’ll go get Mercer to head up to Winterhold as soon as possible, but it will take weeks to get there on foot and I’m _not_ tipping him off that I have a dragon up my sleeve.”  
  
Once Yagraz took Yehochanan, the Imperial bolted down the road toward Riften. After he’d gotten some speed, Marcurio started to cast an ice spell ahead of him, so his momentum could drive him to greater speed while riding the ice.  
  
Relatively alone, Yagraz looked down at the spider-crab. “So, what’s the over-under on me being able to take the dragon and save short-stuff before he ever gets to Winterhold?”  
  
“Incredibly unlikely,” the spider-crab punctuated the answer with more castanet clacks. “The catnapper is highly trained at stealth, and the Master is muzzled so he cannot call out to us once he sees you. The Mad God is keeping me from being able to establish a telepathic connection with him. Most likely for the drama of it.”  
  
Yagraz was quiet for a long time while she tried to keep her rage from exploding all over the poor Daedric spider-crab who was only trying to help. She calmly set him down, walked behind a bolder, and exploded a Yol-Toor-Shul onto it until her rage was diminished. Then, she came back and picked Yehochanan up once more.  
  
“What’s this about ‘muzzled’?”  
  
\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I think Bordeaux pearls would look best on short-stuff--but I'm biased.


	33. Entertainingly Wrong

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcurio and Yagraz solve some problems, while Mohamara makes new ones!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commenters: Wow, Meridia doesn't fuck around.  
> Malacath: Hold my beer.

  
\---  
**Chapter 33: Entertainingly Wrong**  
  
Mercer and Marcurio hadn’t gotten along well from the moment they met. From Mercer’s perspective, the Imperial was too reckless, too flippant about the guild, and his success undermined Mercer’s authority. And on Marcurio’s side of things, Mercer was too stiff, too rigid--he treated the Guild like a legitimate business without making it a legitimate business.  
  
Which, the Imperial considered on the long road to Winterhold wasn’t too bad an idea. The Guild hadn’t been doing well as a purely criminal organization, perhaps transitioning into the Cyrodiil model of combining legitimate business with illicit endeavors would be the most ideal. It’s how the Black-Briars made their fortunes, after all.  
  
Speaking of the Black-Briars, Mercer didn’t want to speak of it but Marcurio could tell how _incensed_ the Guildmaster was when Maven made the trek down to the Guild’s headquarters to speak to Marcurio about the juniper berry mead. Apparently, the sample he had provided her tested incredibly well, and she was going to be making overtures to the man in Helgen, Velod, to begin the founding of the Black-Briar Meadery South. She was _visibly_ pleased with the new market opportunities opened to her--an event so rare that Delvin was still processing it when Mercer and Marcurio left.  
  
On the road, Mercer informed Marcurio of the specific grievance he, and by extension, the Guild, had with Karliah. She had betrayed the Guild and murdered the previous Guildmaster, who also happened to be her beau, twenty-five years prior then attempted to do the same with Mercer. As far as the Breton was concerned, that seemed to be all the justification that he needed for his vendetta. But Marcurio was armed with newfound knowledge and decided to pry ever so slightly into the issue.  
  
“A woman killing someone she was involved with, and then trying to do the same to you… do you think she thought this ‘Gallus’ was cheating on her with you?”  
  
Marcurio’s question stunned Mercer so much he stumbled and fell into one of Eastmarch’s famous hot spring pools. When he emerged, the Guildmaster looked _as far from amused_ as Maven often was. “Would you like to _repeat that_ for me?”  
  
“Certainly.” Marcurio cleared his throat and repeated the question a magnitude of order louder. He kept his amusement at Mercer’s expression hidden behind a carefully perfected mask of feigned curiosity.  
  
“I don’t know what would give you that idea, but _no_. Gallus was my _friend_ , and only my friend. There was never anything more between us.”  
  
“Mhm, yeah.” Marcurio’s tone made it quite clear he didn’t think Mercer was being honest in the slightest. “But still--what in Oblivion could motivate an intelligent, business-minded, girl like this Karliah to murder if not perceived betrayal? Even if there was nothing there, is it possible _she_ thought there was?”  
  
“We are _done_ talking about this,” Mercer ground out and started off down the road again.  
  
Marcurio decided that after Mercer was dead he would spread the rumor that Gallus had an affair with the current Guildmaster, which precipitated the betrayal. Perhaps he could forge some love letters between the two if a sample of Gallus’ writing survived.  
  
Whether Karliah lived to refute or support the rumor was up to the condition Marcurio found his betrothed in. He’d brought an overlarge pack with an excess of furs to keep the cat warm on the return journey--under the pretext to Mercer that Marcurio himself couldn’t stand the harsh cold up north. And Yagraz had entrusted him with a ludicrously strong ring of regeneration, that apparently Mohamara had made, to regrow any missing parts.  
  
Yagraz herself had gone south, to visit the Orc stronghold of Largashbur, consult with the godswife of Malacath, and catch up to the two of them with Kipgolsik. To quote the dragon, there was no doubt that Yagraz’s ‘thu’um had the mastery’. It was inevitable that the dragon would betray them, but it hadn’t happened yet.  
  
Just as Mercer’s betrayal was a certainty, but it hadn't happened yet. Marcurio was used to expecting betrayal, he’d had his trust abused by more than one person in Cheydinhal and the Arcane University. He would not be caught by surprise when it happened.  
  
At least, he thought so at the time.  
  
\--  
  
Largashbur, when Yagraz showed up, was under attack by a Giant. The walls of the stronghold were being torn apart and the Orcs defending them were being tossed around like toys. Needless to say, it _pissed her off_.  
  
Calm on the outside, burning within, Yagraz approached the Giant from behind and calmly tapped it on the thigh. “Excuse me,” she said, pleasant as a peach. When the Giant turned and looked down at her, the giant Orc unleashed the fire within upon the stupid Giant. When she was done, the creature’s head and shoulders had been burned to cinders, leaving the arms to fall away and the corpse to collapse under its weight.  
  
Young sons and daughters of the local Chieftain scrambled to get their wounded kin into the stronghold, more than one fearfully glanced at Yagraz as they did. It wasn’t every day that they were saved from a Giant by a giant of an Orc. When Yagraz moved to follow them into the stronghold, she found a young girl in armor far too heavy for her and holding a mace block her way.  
  
“Hold, outsider.” The young Orc spoke with the confidence of youth and purpose. “You have no business here, leave!”  
  
“I am Yagraz gro-Dushnikh,” the giant Orc woman growled as she advanced on the girl. From within the stronghold the godswife of Malacath came running--likely, she was the girl’s grandmother. “By the code, I am your kin. And by the code, I am owed a debt for killing your Chief’s enemies.”  
  
To her credit, the girl did not flinch when Yagraz closed the distance, even though Yagraz was a foot taller than her. “Chief Yamarz has proclaimed that none may enter Largashbur without his permission.”  
  
“Malacath’s code trumps your Chief’s orders, girl.”  
  
“Please,” the godswife of Malacath gasped as she finally made it to the scene. She was clearly too old for running but ran all the same. “Ugor is a loyal child, she does what her Chief tells her--forgive her her ignorance!”  
  
“Very well.” Yagraz nodded to the godswife and then glowered down at the girl, Ugor. “The blood price will be this.” And without warning, Yagraz pulled her head back and struck Ugor in the forehead with her own. Yagraz didn’t mind the blood that started to flow down her face--the pain was nothing to her anymore, while Ugor was on the ground, reeling. “Grow from this.”  
  
The godswife introduced herself as Atub, not Ugor’s grandmother but her aunt--the Chief’s sister. Already this spoke poorly of the situation in Largashbur, if the Chief’s sister was old enough to be gray and withered, how far behind would the Chief himself be?  
  
Atub confirmed Yagraz’s fears. “Yamarz, our Chief, is weak. Our tribe is weak in turn, and we are cursed. Giants invade our territory, they kill our kin, and they assault our home. Yamarz won’t accept help, and our tribe suffers for it.”  
  
“Why have none of his sons done their duty?” When the Chief was so weak that the tribe was threatened, it was the duty of the eldest son to give his father a good death and become Chief in turn.  
  
“Yamarz has… done things that are inexcusable, and brought this curse on us.” The godswife could not meet Yagraz’s eyes as they approached the Chief’s longhouse. Next to the fire was the shrine to Malacath, a deer’s skull, torn from its neck with a Chief’s bare hands, and gifted a set of Orcish armor as an offering. “He has replaced Malacath in the hearts of his sons, they are more loyal to him than to the code.”  
  
Yagraz stopped and glared down at the godswife. “I would ask _how_ , but that doesn’t matter now. You are godswife to Malacath, you _know_ what the price for this is.”  
  
Atub nodded but continued to avoid the giant Orc’s eyes. “I am poisoned with the weakness of a long memory. I look at Yamarz as he is now, and see only the man he once was.” At long last, the godswife met Yagraz’s eyes, no fear in her expression, only regret. “Whatever punishment I deserve, I will accept. But this is my tribe, and I won’t see them suffer for the mistakes of my generation.”  
  
“Call upon Malacath,” Yagraz said. “I have the materials for the ritual--for a different purpose, mind. But my vengeance matters less than fixing this dumpster fire of a tribe.” Short-stuff would understand, he knew Malacath’s code by heart. He’d studied it so that Yagraz would have a tutor for the finicky bits. From her pack, Yagraz produced two oiled bags; one with a Daedra's heart, and another with fat from a troll. She’d bought the heart in Solitude, and extracted the fat from the troll she had killed on Kyne’s sacred mountain.  
  
Atub took them and started to walk toward the longhouse when Yagraz stopped her by placing her hand on the godswife’s shoulder.  
  
“No. He doesn’t get a say in this anymore. Malacath will decide if he is Chief, or not.”  
  
Yagraz went into the longhouse in Atub’s place. It was cramped, the ceiling was too low for someone her height, and the door too narrow to comfortably enter or exit. And there, looking almost like a Chief was presumably Yamarz. As Yagraz had feared, he was old. Older than a Chief ought to be, gray-haired and developing wrinkles. Were he to sire children, he would not live to see them grown at this point in his life. The Chief certainly looked powerful but in the wrong way. He had the muscles of someone who exercised all day for them, not for someone who actually _used_ them on a daily basis.  
  
The most insulting thing, however, was that it was clear he hadn’t left the longhouse all day--there was no dirt on his armored boots. While his tribe had been under attack, he had been in the longhouse, doing _nothing_.  
  
Yagraz didn’t give Yamarz a chance to speak--he didn’t deserve one after this shameful display. She grabbed him by the nose and twisted just enough to put the cartilage at risk of breaking and led Yamarz out by it. Fool man didn’t even try to resist.  
  
Yamarz sputtered, tried to shout for help, and whined while Yagraz dragged him to the shrine of Malacath. Atub had begun the ritual and refused to look back at her brother when he called out for help. “Great Malacath, we beseech you!” The godswife called out with arms held aloft. “Aid us in our time of need!”  
  
Nothing happened. Nothing needed to happen. Where Orcs were, Malacath was in turn. The ritual was to give him a means by which to speak to them. Yamarz did not understand this.  
  
“Why are none of you _killing this outsider_?” The Chief demanded of his tribe when he was released from Yagraz.  
  
“You pathetic weakling.” Malacath’s voice did not boom, it did not rattle the very bones of Nirn to be heard. It was all around them, as Malacath was. This was not the proclamation of newborn Orcs or the ushering of a fallen family member to Ashpit--this was a disciplinary meeting. Everyone but Yamarz knew it too, from their expressions.  
  
“What was that?” Yamarz played like he did not hear Malacath, perhaps. Or perhaps it had been so long, he genuinely didn’t know the Pariah Daedra’s voice.  
  
Yagraz almost pitied him.  
  
“You don’t deserve to call yourself an Orc, Yamarz. How dare you call on me, after allowing Giants to overrun my shrine. An entire generation of Orcs--ruined by your negligence. It will take much blood, and much more toil before they are fit for the glory I have in store for them.” Malacath’s disembodied voice was cool, bitter, and most devastatingly: _Disappointed_. “You are fortunate Yagraz here has come to clean up your mess.”  
  
“Who? This--?!” Yamarz gestured at Yagraz’s back. “She is large, but she is a woman! And a city-Orc! I am worth a thousand of her!”  
  
“Yagraz, do what this pathetic runt’s sons aren’t strong enough to do.”  
  
Atub froze, realizing what Malacath had ordered. There was no point in trying to bargain with Malacath by this point, but it was clear by her expression that she wished she could.  
  
Yagraz turned to face Yamarz. If she hesitated, he would run away. So she didn’t hesitate. Even though he wore an armored coif of Orcish make, the Companion grabbed Yamarz by either side of his head and repeatedly headbutted him.  
  
The tribe stared in horror, both at how ready and willing Yagraz was to headbutt a man wearing a helmet, and how much damage it seemed to do to Yamarz.  
  
“Wait--!” Yamarz called out after the first headbutt. For five more he only grunted in pain and confusion. But then blood began to flow down from his forehead. “Sword--!” There was a shattering of metal as Yamarz’s armored coif went to pieces from the repeated headbutting. “Apples--!” That proved to be Yamarz’s last word. Three more headbutts and he went limp.  
  
Yagraz released the dead Chieftain and drank a healing potion from her bag. She hated that the code had been so neglected that an outsider had to break the line of Chiefs like this--it would bring despair upon all the Chiefs before Yamarz in Ashpit. But still, it had to be done.  
  
The godswife almost broke the ritual, seeing her dead brother--her Chief. But she had known for a long time that it would end this way, Yamarz had broken too much of the code to have it end differently. “Yamarz is punished,” she said, on the verge of tears. “But what of us? What must we do to lift this curse?”  
  
“Yagraz,” spoke the Prince of Outcasts. “Take all of Yamarz’s sons old enough to be Chief, and lead them to Fallowstone Cave. They will kill all the giants there, and bring me their leader’s weapon. The oldest son to survive will be the new Chief.”  
  
Children pleaded with their oldest brothers not to go and found themselves chastised for speaking against Malacath’s wishes by their mothers.  
  
“By your will, Malacath,” Yagraz said, already weary of taking half a dozen Orcs to their death for their father’s weakness. “And if none survive?”  
  
“Then there will be no Chief until the younger sons grow older, and then they will make the same attempt.”  
  
\--  
  
“Did you know this would happen, pinky?” Yagraz asked of the spider-crab Daedra in her bag, while she watched the only survivor of the Fallowstone Cave attack limp his way up to the shrine of Malacath with a giant’s club.  
  
“Yes,” responded Yehochanan. “Your actions did not affect the connections between what they had done and the consequences. Even if you had not come, this would happen eventually.”  
  
“Still, a little warning next time? Ain’t fun having to kill someone’s dad and then get them killed too, you know?”  
  
Within her bag, the spider-crab Daedra clacked his claws like castanets. “It wasn’t you who did that. It was all the years of standing by, knowing what Yamarz was doing was wrong, and doing nothing to stop him.” There was a short pause, after which Yehochanan hastily spoke up again. “Also you very, very, _very_ much want to stand ten feet away from your current position in any direction except down.”  
  
Seconds after Yagraz complied, something struck the earth where she had been standing, and kicked up a cloud of dirt. When it cleared, there was a Dwemer pole weapon embedded into the earth, covered in pulsing green veins. The weapon was almost as long as Yagraz was tall, and when she yanked it free of the soil she identified it. The massively spiked hammerhead, with a pulsing red eye at its center on either side, cinched it. Volendrung, the namesake of the province of Hammerfell, and mighty weapon of Malacath.  
  
When Malacath wished the weapon to pass to a new wielder, he would find the old bearer and bid them to throw it. Whereupon Malacath would guide it to the new bearer until their time with it was done. A prestigious honor.  
  
“Take this weapon, Yagraz,” Malacath’s voice said to the giant Orc and her alone. “Take this power. And use it to defeat your enemies.”  
  
“You realize,” Yehochanan cut in. “That if you try wielding that one-handed you’re likely to severely injure yourself?”  
  
“Probably.” The giant Orc shrugged. “Thankfully, this shield is strapped to my arm, so I don’t actually need to hold it.”  
  
“Oh, that’s handy.”  
  
If Yehochanan had fingers, it would have been the perfect opportunity for the two of them to make finger-wands at each other as Yagraz would with Mohamara when a pun was perfectly executed.  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio had thought he had the perfect way to kill Mercer before he could be killed in turn. He was going to electrify the Breton’s enchanted sword so that he dropped it, and then freeze his armor, whereupon he’d slice Mercer’s throat with his own sword. Breton magic resistance didn’t extend to their gear.  
  
And instead, he got shot in the nipple--directly, in the nipple--by a surprise arrow from Karliah. It was tipped with a paralytic poison that had let him watch the two old Thieves Guild have a terse conversation that basically amounted to ‘I will kill you to death’, ‘no **I** will kill you to death’. Afterward, Karliah had left, and Mercer had the _gall_ to slice Marcurio’s neck before leaving himself.  
  
‘Oh I’m going to haunt the _shit_ out of you, Mercer,’ Marcurio thought as he died.  
  
Except he didn’t die. He woke up with a start much later, outside, and shirtless in a hidden campsite near the barrow where Karliah had been hiding.  
  
And there she was, explaining how she had _saved_ Marcurio by poisoning him and making it so Mercer’s attempt at homicide failed from a reduced heart-rate. The healing she’d provided hadn’t even been enough to prevent a visible scar from being on the Imperial’s neck--he’d have to order special makeup to cover it from now on. Perhaps that alchemist in Bruma still sold the waterproof stuff.  
  
“Look--I very much appreciate not being dead,” Marcurio said while he put his shirt and armor back on. At least she’d taken the arrow out of his chest without scaring. “But before we collaborate on killing Mercer I just have one little request.”  
  
The waify Dunmer sensed her peril as the Nibenese man approached her quickly and with a frighteningly wide smile. But she couldn’t get far enough away before he grabbed her by both arms.  
  
“Where. Is my. Betrothed. That you. Kidnapped?” Though he smiled, he hissed the words out in venom-filled bursts.  
  
Karliah looked away and sighed. “I lost him.”  
  
If Marcurio hadn’t had years of tolerance from suffering through mind-numbingly stupid things at his father’s parties, that might have set him off enough to kill her right away. “What do you mean you lost him? He got away from you?”  
  
“No… I was getting comfortable enough with him to consider taking the muzzle off--”  
  
A layer of frost began to grow over Karliah’s arms from where Marcurio gripped them and his smile became ever so slightly more _unhinged_ at the word ‘muzzle’.  
  
“And-and he just vanished! There was an orb of purple light, and he was gone. Happened a week ago, after I got him to translate Gallus’ journal. _That’s_ why I kidnapped him, he’s a Mystic, they can translate any language!”  
  
Marcurio took a deep breath and released Karliah with a sharp crack of breaking the ice. His smile was much more stable when he spoke to her again. “If I find out that he’s hurt right now, because of you? I will turn you into a _bar of soap_ , do you hear me?”  
  
The waif nodded emphatically.  
  
Later, on the road back to Riften to confront Mercer about his treachery, Marcurio started up a conversation with Karliah to break the tension. “So, you got this… Gallus’ journal? Why did Mercer kill him?”  
  
Karliah’s blue-skinned face tinged a little pink at the question, and she coughed into her hand before answering. “Well, Mohamara admitted his translation wasn’t exact. But from what I gathered, Mercer was jealous that Gallus and I could be a couple, but that he wasn’t going to be allowed what he wanted. I.. don’t know why Gallus wouldn’t allow it, but according to Mohamara, he didn’t. And Mercer killed him because of it.”  
  
“... Who did Mercer fancy that Gallus wouldn’t let him see?” Marcurio’s mind raced with possibilities. Vex, the infiltration specialist? Brynjolf, the Guild’s second in command? Vekel the Man, who ran the Ragged Flagon? All such _juicy_ possibilities.  
  
“ _Maven Black-Briar._ ”  
  
Marcurio was so stunned he almost tripped over a rock in his path and had to flail about to regain his balance. When he had, he whirled around to meet Karliah’s eyes. “No way.”  
  
“Yes way,” the Dunmer nodded. “Gallus suspected Mercer of being Ingun Black-Briar’s father, and didn’t think it was appropriate, for whatever reason.”  
  
“Oh my many gods,” Marcurio actually started to laugh. A deep belly-laugh that carried for long distances on the snowfields of Winterhold. “That’s so much better than my theory that Gallus and Mercer were secretly an item.”  
  
“...What?!”  
  
\--  
  
One week prior, in the summoning chamber of a castle at the foot of Shearpoint mountain, a cadre of mages gathered to lend their energies to the summoning. For years, they had been working on this very spell--but their leader, the Caller, always said that the stars were not aligned for the completion of the ritual.  
  
No longer.  
  
The Caller, a High Elf mage and former head of Restoration at the College of Winterhold, had announced that the time was upon them! The stars had aligned to allow them to call upon the Daedra whose name they didn’t even know yet-- only its meaning. An offering was prepared, consisting of multiple parts to hopefully entice the Daedra to accept them into its service. One of the junior members was tied up and gagged, laid out on a long table before the summoning circle, alongside gold, food, books of ancient lore, and art of the finest quality they could obtain.  
  
“Come to us!” The Caller beseeched the whirling mass of magicka. Those of her acolytes who knew summoning found it strange that she didn’t require a sigil stone for the ritual, but the spell hadn’t reacted negatively. Yet. “We summon you, across space! Across time! You, whose name means ‘I love you!’ Come to us! Please, we beg of you!”  
  
A great wind kicked up, and a small whirlwind became visible at the center of the summoning circle. Lightning cracked, connecting the mass of magicka floating around the room to the base of the whirlwind. Purple fire sprang up and consumed the whirlwind. It expanded into a bubble and then exploded with force enough to send the Caller and her seventeen acolytes to the floor, and douse every candle in the ritual chamber.  
  
“Quickly, light!” The Caller and those of her following who knew either Magelight or Candlelight created the illuminating orbs to clear the darkness. And with the light, they could see a pair of eyes looking back at them from the summoning circle.  
  
With whispered orders, the assembled mages went to one knee before the summoned Daedra. “Oh Lord,” the Caller said with a solemn tone. “We make you this offering, that you might accept us as your faithful and share with us your knowledge.”  
  
There was no immediate response, but soon enough they picked up on the sound of shifting cloth and some form of plaintive whining. It took a moment to realize it wasn’t coming from the student they had tied up as the sacrifice, a High Elf named Orthorn.  
  
The Caller strained her ears to hear their Lord’s bidding, and could faintly make out ‘help’. “Our Lord requires assistance, who will volunteer?”  
  
Two elemental mages rushed forward ahead of everyone else, they scurried toward the summoning circle on their hands and knees.  
  
“The Master is bound,” the Bosmer of the pair declared with alarm from the dark. “I… I cannot understand this contraption. Master, please stop wriggling.”  
  
More mages advanced, eager to earn their Master’s favor by freeing him. With them came the light, and it revealed a tiny figure, trapped in a bag lined with fur on the inside. Their Master’s head was revealed, seeming to be a Khajiit. Pale pink in color, with highlights of pale blue-gray and similarly pale lime-green--the colors the Caller had bid them dye their robes and decorate the castle with. But the Master could not speak to them, for his mouth was held shut by a muzzle of some fiendish design.  
  
Naturally, it was the Caller who figured out how to free the Master. He stretched his jaw once free of the muzzle, showing mighty teeth for one so small. And then came freeing him from the bag.  
  
Several of the more… delicate members of the coven fainted at seeing their Master in such a state of undress, but the Caller was quick to take a banner down from the wall to provide a covering for their Lord.  
  
“Master,” she said as she returned to the pose of supplication. “Is our offering suitable for you? Will you take us into your service, and teach us what you deem worthy?”  
  
The Master, naturally feigning confusion, examined the offering laid out for him. “Untie that man,” he said. And to his faithful, the sound of their Master’s voice was divine! “I assume he wants to be a student too?”  
  
“Yes!” Orthorn cried, literally cried, with joy at being allowed to live once his gag was removed. “Thank you, Master! I won’t disappoint you, I promise!”  
  
“Okay, fine, whatever.” The Master, of course, annoyed with Orthorn already, rubbed his temples. “You want me to teach you? Okay, someone wake those people up and form a circle. We’ll go around, introduce ourselves and tell me something about you so I know where to start. But first, someone find me some trousers.” After his new followers mistook his orders, the Master was regrettably forced to clarify. “That fit _me_ , I meant!”  
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wonder what exactly the Caller was calling? My personal belief was that she broke from the College because Aren refused to let any restaurants deliver there.


	34. All Ahead Full

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery begins to happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think that I've been building up the crazy over time, but if you disagree tell me so.

 

  
\---  
**Chapter 34: All Ahead Full**  
  
Mohamara stood in front of a chalkboard, while his new… minions seemed such a callous word, but he couldn’t think of something to describe them better. Faithful seemed too personal, none of them knew him enough to _be_ faithful. But, they had asked him to teach them, so he did. And with his Mysticism skills locked behind some mental wall, he focused on what he still could do: Enchanting.  
  
“Now, while the Nouveau style is certainly artistic, it’s also an incredibly inefficient enchanting style,” the pink cat explained while demonstrating the Nouveau style of conveying ‘Fire’ on the chalkboard versus the Runic and Nordic knot variant. “See, look how much more space it occupies? The Nouveau style is mostly for beginners, like you guys, because the increase in space is more forgiving of mistakes and easier to fix if you spot something wrong.”  
  
“Master,” The Caller--who hoped to style herself as Mohamara’s high priestess--looked up from her notes to ask a question. “You mentioned a ‘Deco’ style in the last lecture?”  
  
“I’m getting to that, don’t worry.” Mohamara cleaned off the board with a cloth and started on the next drawing. “The Deco style is an advanced enchanting style--not as advanced as Mandala or Nordic knots, but still more advanced than Nouveau. Deco style’s biggest selling point is it is _sturdy_. If you want to enchant a structure to resist earthquakes, weather conditions, tidal waves, or artillery--you use Deco. However, Deco style doesn’t translate well to day to day use, which means that the most you’ll use it will be in architectural work.” He paused to look over his shoulder. “This will be on the test, any questions?”  
  
That almost everyone but The Caller raised their hands disheartened Mohamara more than it should have.  
  
It turned out that he needn’t have been disheartened that there were so many questions. It wasn’t because he had explained things poorly--though he had forgotten to mention a few things such as how they were going to practice their linework. The questions were because they were full of ideas and questions of ‘why’; why they couldn’t combine linework styles, and why enchantments created through Mohamara’s methods didn’t require a recharge.  
  
Mohamara wondered if this was how it would have felt to be a teacher. Perhaps if he’d taken the courses anyway, he could do a better job of explaining things or answering their questions. But as it was, they seemed to learn the best from asking questions. And though they mocked him relentlessly for it, Orthorn would ask questions no one else did about important things. Such as ‘how do you keep two nearby enchantments from affecting one another’s performance’?  
  
None of them had tried to pet him or pick him up except for when they had gotten him out of the bag. And they all wore robes modeled on his fur--pastel pink, pale blue, and pale lime green. He could tell they _wanted_ too, especially the Nord women. But they didn’t even ask for permission, they just… refrained from bringing it up at all.  
  
Some of them had even come forth as former necromancers and asked how they could make amends. Mohamara gave them the Meridian answer to such repentance: “Reflect on the pain and suffering you have inflicted on those poor souls. Reflect on how it would feel to be in their situation. Work to make the world better for the rest of your days, and forget all that you knew on the vile subject except how to defeat it.”  
  
The most baffling thing had come almost a week after he’d been teaching them when The Caller let slip a factoid. “You know, when we found out your name meant ‘I love you’, many of the faithful expected something… more ‘Dibellan’ in your nature.”  
  
That stopped Mohamara from chopping up a potato for making into crisps to look at the High Elf with visible confusion. “It doesn’t.”  
  
“Pardon, Lord?” The Caller stopped shucking corn to return Mohamara’s confused look.  
  
“My name doesn’t mean ‘I love you’, it means ‘bastard’.” Dread began to creep into Mohamara--had they only summoned him by mistake?  
  
However, The Caller actually laughed at Mohamara’s response, like it was a little joke. “Oh, Master, I had no idea you knew bilingual jokes.” When the cat didn’t respond in kind, her amusement faltered. “Um. While ‘Mohamara’ does translate that way in ta’agra, albeit in a cruel interpretation, in Daedric ‘Mohamara’ translates as ‘I love you’. Rather informally, too.”  
  
Without Mohamara’s knowledge, the Sphere of Kindness reacted to this revelation and reached into his memories. They were a tangled mess of interconnected bonds, but it only needed one. One of the bonds rooted in his identity that grew between his name and his sense of self. ‘Unwanted’ was its name, and when the Sphere of Kindness touched it ‘Unwanted’ became ‘Loved’. Among all the gray and withered bonds, the one that had been changed shone bright pink. While it didn’t have an instant effect on the other gray bonds, they started to show just a bit more color from the bright pink being there.  
  
Outside, the faithful kitchen staff was scrambling, with more and more mages coming into the kitchens and demanding to know who had made the Master cry. What finally stopped their panicking like decapitated chickens was Orthorn putting a bowl under Mohamara’s chin to collect the tears.  
  
“What?” He said when everyone but the Master gave him accusatory looks. “Daedra tears are a valuable alchemical ingredient. The Master wouldn’t want us to waste them.”  
  
\--  
  
The crying just _wouldn’t stop_. Orthorn had to change bowls several times, and eventually the faithful abandoned their attempt to shame him and joined in on the tear collection. Daedra tears, apparently, were _really good_ alchemical ingredients. Fortunately, the castle’s internal collapses had opened an aquifer to partially flood rooms, and provide an easy source of water so Mohamara didn’t dehydrate himself too badly.  
  
He wasn’t _sad_ , though the faithful tried a variety of stunts to amuse him enough to stop crying. They even brought out some of the vampires they had been experimenting on to torment for his amusement.  
  
After a while, Mohamara asked to be left alone and sat on the stairs in the partially flooded room trying to figure out what had happened to cause this. And how to stop it because after _two days_ of crying non-stop, even in his sleep, it was too much. So, while he had the waterworks going, he decided to make it useful. “Dad, help.”  
  
The top of Sheogorath’s head, from his scalp to the bridge of his nose rose up from the surface of the water. A disk of water that had been there rose up with it and rested on top of his head like a nonsensical hat. Bubbles rose to the water’s surface and popped, bringing the Mad God’s words into the room. “Hey, son! What’s the haps?”  
  
“Please don’t use outdated slang,” Mohamara implored. “But I was wondering if you could look into my head and find out why this,” he indicated the tear-marks on his face, “won’t stop?”  
  
From the surface of the water disk on Sheogorath’s head emerged Sheogorath’s hand and arm, in a thumbs up gesture. Then as quickly as he first appeared, he sank back into the water and was suddenly sitting next to Mohamara on the stairs.  
  
“Alright, let’s take a look-see at what’s going on.” Sheogorath snapped his fingers and exploded into dust that flew into Mohamara’s nose automatically.  
  
Sheogorath went beyond the meat of Mohamara’s brain, he went beyond the synapses firing, he went into the mind of a Khajiit. To his dismay, Mohamara’s mind was too rigid for him to have any fun with--such an ungracious host, nothing at all like Pelagius. His son’s mind took the form of a machine half shut down, with dozens of Mohamara’s in various outfits running around. They were pulling tarps off of disused components and oiling the parts that needed to move soon.  
  
None seemed to mind Sheogorath walking amongst them in his Sheggorath aspect. It was like he wasn’t even there. Mohamaras in oil-stained overalls with bits of metal walked by and replaced damaged bits of the machine. As Sheggorath watched, lights for entire sections of the mental machine started to come on, cracking from the strain after so long asleep.  
  
Sheggorath found the control room of the mind, where Mohamara’s connection to his chamberlain gave orders to the lesser aspects of the Khajiit’s mind. The command Mohamaras were dressed as naval officers, and stood flanking chadburns labeled with various mental functions. The connection to Mohamara’s chamberlain took the form of a massive round screen, where the spider-crab watched the control room and beyond from afar.  
  
“The power plant is producing enough for us to bring more neurochemicals online, sir,” spoke a Mohamara labeled ‘Moody’.  
  
“Excellent,” responded the Chamberlain, not commenting on Sheggorath lurking in the background. “We cannot afford to lose momentum. All ahead full, Mr. Moody.”  
  
“Very good, sir.” As one, all the command Mohamaras adjusted their chadburns from ‘quarter ahead’ to ‘ahead full’.  
  
Elsewhere in the mind of Mohamara, dozens of worker Mohamaras shoveled fuel into furnaces, shouting at each other to meet the demands of ‘ahead full’. Gauges marking emotional levels began to rise dramatically. And pistons that before were barely moving or outright stopped began to increase their speed. As soon as each one was oiled and connected to the power, it began to move.  
  
For being so rigid, Sheggorath appreciated how much of a mess everything was. He found a strange beauty in the rhythm that came from the sound of pistons at maximum speed and decided he’d seen all he needed to.  
  
When Sheorgorath returned to Nirn, he found his son crying even worse than when he had left. Outright bawling, really. Sheogorath shifted into his Sheggorath aspect here too and brought the young Daedric Khajiit into a hug. As much of a wreck as he was, Mohamara didn’t muster a resistance.  
  
“Lad, there’s nothing wrong.” The Skooma Cat said in what was almost a consoling voice. “Except all the things that are unacceptably wrong with you and you should be ashamed of. But this isn’t one of those!” Sheggorath patted Mohamara on the head. “All that despondency that you had when Khajiit first found you is finally starting to break apart. As awful as it is for this one to say, you’re becoming what _should_ be normal for you.” After the word ‘normal’, Sheggorath had to force the rest of the sentence out quickly as he began to violently hack and cough. It ended when he spat out a furball into the water. “Hate when that happens. Except when I don’t.”  
  
“This is… normal?” Mohamara fought to talk around the ugly crying, not as well informed to the cause as Sheggorath.  
  
“No, but approaching normal.” Once more he hacked and coughed until he spat out a hairball. “See this is why this one hates despair so much.” The Skooma Cat adjusted the hug he was giving Mohamara to something that would gel nicer with the cat’s less than stellar sense of masculinity--a side hug! “It drags you down so far that you think down is up, and up is down. And it doesn’t do it in a _fun_ way, no, it turns everything gray and hopeless, and eugh.” Sheggorath stuck his tongue out in disgust. “Nasty. But you know what won’t be nasty, but be oodles of fun?”  
  
Mohamara shook his head no, he didn’t even attempt to guess.  
  
“When you get a look-see at your Chamberlain. Or what roughly equates to a chamberlain, a mortal hasn’t mantled you so it hasn’t combined with anyone.” The Skooma Cat shrugged. “And what your friend and hubby will say about it when they find out its been lying to them this whole time about being able to talk with you.”  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio’s expression could only be described as the neutral face of displeasure. There was a nuance to the expression that few people could pick up. Brynjolf and Yagraz were two of those people, but Karliah was not. They had made it back to Riften, confronted the Guild about Mercer’s lies, ransacked the Guildmaster’s house--where Marcurio found the legendary sword Chillrend and was one hundred percent giving that to Mohamara--and had a long verbal debate about a splinter faction of the Thieves Guild.  
  
Nightingales, servants of the Daedric Prince Nocturnal and protectors of the Prince of Night’s temple which granted thieves their luck, among other things. Nightingales that had once been Gallus, Mercer, and Karliah until the matter of murder happened. Nightingales that Karliah wanted Brynjolf and Marcurio to become.  
  
The neutral face of displeasure was well deserved.  
  
“You want me to sell my eternal soul to Nocturnal,” Marcurio started, his voice only a hair above being a monotone. “So that I can kill Mercer _slightly_ more dead?”  
  
“He’s a Nightingale, and he’s kept his powers somehow,” the waify Dunmer fired back. “We won’t stand a chance without the blessing of Nocturnal.”  
  
“See, I kind of had this _plan_ for where my soul would go after death.” Marcurio gestured erratically as he attempted to convey esoteric information. “I was going to spend my life, only sometimes sitting on an enormous pile of money, with my soon to be husband. He’d help me with my issues, I’d help him with his, and maybe we could grow to love each other. Maybe. And then I’d die, and stay with him in his realm in--I’m going to go on a limb and guess--Oblivion. Doing things such as _not serving Nocturnal_ forever.”  
  
Brynjolf, the red-headed Riften native did a double-take at that bit of information. “Wait--that sweet little thing in the portrait you showed us all is a _Daedra?_ Boy doesn’t look like he could hurt fruit let alone rob people of their souls.”  
  
“Short-stuff’s too much sweetness and light for that,” Yagraz commented with her arms crossed. “He’ll snark at ya, that’s about it.”  
  
“Whatever you decide, it must be done soon.” Yehochanan clacked his claws like castanets within Yagraz’s bag. “The Master and his faithful are going to the ruin where Mercer will steal the Eyes of the Falmer. Even as changed as he is, Mercer will know the Master when he sees him.”  
  
“What in Oblivion is Mohamara doing in Irkngthand?” Marcurio and Yagraz asked at the same time.  
  
“Are either of you goin’ to be telling me what’s in that bag,” Brynjolf asked while pointing to the relevant container with his thumb.  
  
“No,” the two said in unison once more.  
  
“The bandits there are people who have been driven out of their homes by the war,” Yehochanan explained. “My Master’s nature hears their suffering and drives him to offer kindness as a balm for their wounds. He is there to help as many as who want to be helped.”  
  
“Your husband’s a bleedin’ heart, lad,” Brynjolf commented. “Doesn’t sound like any Daedra I’ve heard of.”  
  
“That’s what makes him so interesting,” Marcurio said like he was explaining how water wasn’t actually wet to someone. “But back to the topic we’ve diverged from--no, I don’t want to become a Nightingale.” He focused his gaze on Karliah. “Not just because I have a grudge to settle with you, though I do. Not because I dislike Nocturnal because I don’t. But because I refuse to sell my soul to kill _one man_.”  
  
“That one man was strong enough to kill a Nightingale,” Karliah fired back, a bit of emotion in her raspy voice. “What hope do we have if we don’t have those powers too?”  
  
“What even are these Nightingale powers? What are you proposing we sell our souls _for_?”  
  
Karliah described powers that would set close friends against each other, powers that would let a Nightingale slip in and out of a person’s vision in literal blinks of an eye, and the power to change cause and effect. For the freedom to use these powers however they wished, Nightingales had to guard Nocturnal’s temple in life and in death, then serve her further in her realm of Oblivion.  
  
“Only one of those even _sounds_ worth selling my soul for,” Marcurio grumbled. “And that armor isn’t even stylish.” He gestured to the almost dour gray leather armor Karliah and Brynjolf wore. “An awful deal, all around.”  
  
“The armor’s not meant to be _stylish_ , it’s meant to keep you _hidden_. And on top of the powers she gives us, Nocturnal gives us back our luck.” The waify Dunmer crossed her arms. “You think you’ve got good fortune _now_? Imagine what luck you’d have if Nocturnal was actually giving you support.”  
  
That stopped Marcurio’s tirade dead in its tracks. He couldn’t deny that he’d been _by far_ the most fortunate of the Guild, who supposedly was cursed by Nocturnal. But for what, they still had no idea. If he suddenly had the Daedra of luck _helping him_ , his mind boggled at the possibilities.  
  
“Yeho,” the Nibense Imperial called out to the spider-crab who peeked out of Yagraz’s bag at his summons. “Does my betrothed have any grievance with Nocturnal?”  
  
“No,” responded the spider-crab. “Nocturnal is his aunt, and while she and Meridia do not like each other, they still respect each other as sisters. Were the Lady of Infinite Energies aware of the state of Nocturnal’s temple, she would order the Master to rectify it anyway. Furthermore, the Master will instinctually form a bond of love with those who identify as his family.”  
  
“Meridia? The Daedra of Day?” Brynjolf said in amazement. And then he saw Yehochanan poking out of Yagraz’s bag and froze. “What in Oblivion is that?”  
  
All the spider-crab did to answer him was clack its claws like castanets.  
  
\--  
  
When Mercer finally got in sight of Irkngthand, he was met by a strange phenomenon. From the Dwemer ruins, balls of light trailing sparks would fly upward into the night sky. And once they reached higher than any bird could fly, they exploded into enormous colorful displays. Sometimes they would explode multiple times, each with a different color. What magic was at work, he didn’t care much about. It just meant that there would be more light, and in turn, more shadows for Mercer to hide in.  
  
The bandits he had expected were not in his way, to his surprise. They were gathered outside, in a crowd surrounded by mages in bizarre pink robes. It was these mages who would toss the balls of light that exploded high above. From what Mercer could pick up, they were taking requests of the bandits for what next to make.  
  
He couldn’t understand--the display they were putting on would draw enemies for miles, yet the bandits didn’t seem to care. Still, it was a distraction he could make use of. Without the bandits to worry about, it was just the Dwemer traps and the Falmer to deal with.  
  
Imagine his surprise to make his way all the way down to the Falmer statue in the depths of the Dwemer ruin, and saw that the jeweled eyes of the statue were missing. In their place, he found a note held to the statue’s nose with a bit of honey.  
  
‘Lose something?’ And Karliah’s symbol. Mercer saw red. How had she figured out his plan? How had she gotten here ahead of him?!  
  
“Yoohoo!”  
  
Mercer automatically dodge-rolled away from where he stood, a good thing too as a ludicrously large Dwemer warhammer struck the ground where he had just been standing. His instincts told him to keep dodging, and as he did he dodged arrows and exploding balls of fire from on high. When it was clear he no longer needed to do so, he stopped and glared upward. On a ledge high above him were three fools in the armor of the Nightingales, and an Orc woman he’d never seen before.  
  
“I know you went to all that trouble to get down there,” one of the male Nightingales said, and Mercer identified the voice as Brynjolf’s. “But we did a little lookin’ around and discovered a cave that goes right from the shore to down here. Fortunate, wouldn’t you say?”  
  
“You shouldn’t have stayed to gloat,” Mercer told him. “Now you will all die.” He drew his sword and slashed the air in the right spot--moving the dust in a chain of events that would knock loose the last bits of stone holding Lake Yogrim at bay. The earth shook, and the interlopers had to struggle to stay up on their ledge. Save one. The other male Nightingale, undoubtedly Marcurio, remained standing with no difficulty.  
  
Mercer almost respected that.  
  
“Stealing from a Daedra never ends well, you know.” Marcurio lept from the ledge and clung to the walls like a spider to stop his momentum. After a few more such jumps, the Nightingale and the Guildmaster stood on equal footing, glaring at one another. “But really, I’m only here because you _fucking stabbed me in the neck_.”  
  
“Petty revenge is it? I thought better of you, boy.”  
  
“You really, _aggressively_ , shouldn’t have.” Marcurio shrugged. “I take after my dad in the pettiness department. Now, let’s get to some of that petty revenge, shall we? And if you end up winning, you can go be with Maven or whatever.”  
  
Mercer’s brain _stopped_ almost for so long that he’d risk being made an easy target. When he came out of it, he spoke with genuine curiosity. “Why would I go be with Maven? I intended to leave Skyrim altogether.”  
  
“Well, that’s what all this Gallus murder was about, wasn’t it?” Behind his mask, Mercer guessed Marcurio to be looking _insufferably_ smug about the situation. “You and Maven were going,” the man made a series of clicks, whistles, and rude gestures, “and Gallus didn’t like that even though he and Karliah were going,” he made _another_ series of clicks, whistles, and even ruder gestures.  
  
Flabbergasted beyond belief, Mercer stared open-mouthed at the Nightingale. “What? What?! No! I killed Gallus because he tried to stop me stealing the Skeleton Key!”  
  
“The skeleton whoozit-whatzit?”  
  
However, Karliah seemed to know what was going on. She gasped in horror at Mercer’s words.  
  
“The Skeleton Key, Nocturnal’s Daedric Artifact,” Mercer declared with clear pride. “She used it only to maintain a portal that she never used. But I have found so many uses for it, the _best_ uses for it! With the Key, I am unbeatable, and will eventually come into the possession of limitless wealth!”  
  
From up on the ledge, a blinding light emerged from behind the remaining interlopers. Perhaps the sun was coming up outside?  
  
“Lady Meridia,” Marcurio said with solemnity. “I trust this is good enough of a reason for us to have involved you?”  
  
“If it was not, I would not be here, mortal.” Mercer looked up and saw a pink Khajiit, the size of a child, with eyes that shone from within with golden light and a halo of that same light behind his head. The cat and Guildmaster locked gazes, and Mercer found it to be like staring into the sun. “How _dare_ you, mortal?” The cat spoke in a male and female voice overlapping each other. “How dare you presume to steal from _my sister_!?” Wings of golden light formed on the cat’s back and the Daedra-possessed Khajiit launched himself down at Mercer.  
  
Time slowed down and Mercer went over his options. The Daedra-possessed Khajiit was coming in so fast, _too fast_. Even if he started dodging the moment the cat had developed wings, he couldn’t move fast enough to get out of the way. Every solution the Skeleton Key brought to mind required more of Mercer’s body than he could give.  
  
With no viable options for escape, he had to fight like a mere mortal. All the wounds he inflicted on the cat healed themselves instantly, and the wounds inflicted on Mercer from the cat’s massive fangs, wing slams, and weapons of light burned like the hottest fire he’d ever experienced. The cuts from the light-sword instantly cauterized themselves. But Mercer knew, if he could just stay alive long enough, the Skeleton Key would--...  
  
...Get stolen, as it turned out. Mercer realized he had lost eight of his senses, he could no longer see the stream of information the Key had provided, and he couldn’t slow down time to think. The cause revealed itself to be Marcurio, standing on the crossed legs of the Falmer statue, with the Skeleton Key in his hand.  
  
Without it, Mercer found himself held aloft by his neck and the will of the angry Daedra of the Day. “Chamberlain,” the cat snarled in its double-voice. “Bind this mortal, but keep him alive. I want my sister to have her vengeance.”  
  
A pink spider-crab thing soon appeared in Mercer’s vision and he was helpless to resist as it scuttled all over him and bound him up in prismatic silk until only his nose was exposed.  
  
“Now. You, who has the Skeleton Key. Take this wretch to Nocturnal’s temple, open her portal, and cast this thief on whatever bed of coals she deems appropriate.”  
  
Left in the dark, only able to faintly hear what went on outside his cocoon, and with no ability to escape his prison, Mercer became what he had stolen the Key to never become again. He became afraid.  
  
\--  
  
“So, you got some worshippers now?”  
  
Mohamara looked up from working on enchanting a spyglass. Now that he was back in Helgen, he had backlogged work to catch up on. But this time, with his most promising students to help him out--save The Caller. She, the rest of the faithful, and the bandits of Irkngthand were in the process of a grand migration--from Shearpoint mountain to Volskygge Valley, where they would form a settlement to honor Mohamara.  
  
The mask of the Dragon Priest that had once lurked on Shearpoint’s western slope--Krosis--proved to be an excellent teaching tool for how to overlay enchanting effects, and it lay on the table next to the fireplace for his students to look at, study the interconnected arrays, and inspire their own work. The Legion appreciated having more of Mohamara’s style of enchanters around, even if they wore pink and were absolutely lovey-dovey. Even when compared to Mara’s priesthood.  
  
“Sorta,” the cat said at last to Yagraz. On his back, Yehochanan was busy pulling excess emotions out of his head and spinning them up in prismatic cloth for Mohamara to process or use for his enchanting. “There aren’t rites, or sacred texts yet. So it’s more like… a philosophy? But they asked to be my students, so until they get a religion organized, students are what I’ll call them.”  
  
“Good for you, short-stuff.” She ruffled the Khajiit’s fur and had the spider-crab clack his claws in castanet fashion for disrupting his work. “You’re finally able to be a teacher. Going to teach them Mysticism?”  
  
Mohamara groaned and rested his head in his hands. “Oh that’s going to _suck_. They’ll be miserable, and then I’ll feel guilty about it, and I’ll try to dumb it down and they won’t learn it right….”  
  
“Have the same faith in yourself that your followers have in you, Master,” Yehochanan chimed in as he trapped anxiety in his silk. “Let them walk the path and learn as you did, and trust that they will come to understand eventually.”  
  
“This feels incredibly weird, by the way.” Mohamara pointed at the cat-sized spider-crab riding on his back and shoulders, plucking at the base of his skull to extract emotions.  
  
“It looks so much worse,” Yagraz commented. “Like, if I was a pansy-ass like that one Orthen student guy, I’d probably have thrown up from watching this so long.”  
  
“He’s not like _exposing my brain_ is he?”  
  
“No, but those emotions are _ugly_ when he pulls them out.” She made a disgusted noise. “I think one of them blinked at me.”  
  
“That would be paranoia,” Yehochanan clarified. “And yes, it did.”  
\---  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you have those siblings you don't actually like but if someone other than you fucks around with them you get pissed, right?
> 
> If you're curious about the et'Ada genealogy: Azura begot Merid Nunda, Nocturnal, and Mara.


	35. Whom you Marry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Communication is the key to a healthy relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started playing Skyrim, I liked Laila the most out of any of the Jarls. But as I grew older, I shifted more into Balgruuf's camp. Still, she has a warm place in my heart.

  
\---  
**Chapter 35: Whom you Marry**  
  
Mohamara dreamed of fishing. In his dream, he could swim fast enough to catch swordfish, macefish, and juvenile sea serpents. He would drag them to the surface so that the seagulls might eat that which he did not. They were just as hungry as he was, and so far from a place to rest their wings.  
  
Sharks would pass by him like he wasn’t there unless he fancied taking a bite out of them. All in all, it was a good dream.  
  
And then he heard it. A keening cry from the distance, followed by chirping and all the fish vanishing from the water. Whales.  
  
Mohamara swam as fast as he could, but his speed seemed to have left him. They were getting closer, he could hear them telling him to swim faster, that they needed their exercise. He couldn’t dive down, he’d never be able to go deeper than them, and he couldn’t fly--  
  
Except that he could. He remembered he could fly, and lept up out of the water.  
  
But that was where the whales were. Their flukes and fins had been replaced with feathery wings, and they chased after him in the sky too. Every time they came close they bit off a piece of him until he was only hopping forward on one leg. And then they took that too.  
  
Alone, with no one to rescue him, the only option left to him seemed to be to wait for the whales to close in and hope that they’d start with his head.  
  
\--  
  
He woke up before that, though. On his back, Yehochanan was extracting the helplessness he’d been feeling and wrapping it up tightly. It was fortunate that he woke up at that moment, for he saw Marcurio sneaking into Mohamara’s workshop to lay a strange malachite glass sword down on the enchanter’s breakfast table, along with a carved mahogany box roughly the size of Yehochanan.  
  
The mage-thief was back to his usual silk robes, and perhaps the lack of sneaking enchantments had been what allowed Mohamara to catch him in the act. But regardless of circumstance, the cat latched onto the distraction from how useless he still was. “Hey,” the cat called, quiet so that his students or Hadvar wouldn’t wake up.  
  
Marcurio paused to look over at Mohamara and winked. “Hey yourself.”  
  
“Do you have to leave so soon?”

  
Marcurio arched an eyebrow while Mohamara got out of bed and hastily found a robe to get dressed with so they could leave. Yehochanan clung to the cat’s back like a backpack, his weight hardly noticeable. Human, Khajiit, and Daedric spider-crab silently made their way through the keep and out to Helgen’s wall. The guard that would have patrolled that section of the wall was fast asleep inside the turret, according to Marcurio.  
  
“So why’d you want to come out here rather than sit in the muffle bubble?” Marcurio asked as they sat on the wall overlooking Ilinalta Valley to the north.  
  
“I didn’t want my students waking up and seeing you and me talking, they’d pester you something awful.” Mohamara attempted to glare over his shoulder at his… servitor. “Because someone couldn’t keep quiet that we’re going to be married.”  
  
“They want you to be happy,” Yehochanan defended. “Remember that Meridia is kindest of all the Daedra because she speaks the truth when asked, and model your religion on hers.”  
  
“Speaking of Daedra,” Macurio cut in. “In the spirit of being honest, I need to let you know that I made a deal with Nocturnal. For the powers and pure luck that let us deal with Mercer--I don’t think you know who that is, the guy who gave me this.” The Imperial pulled aside a lavish tasseled silk scarf to reveal a nasty scar on his neck.  
  
A burning rage lit in Mohamara’s stomach before it was hastily extracted by Yehochanan. “Oh. Is he… dead?”  
  
Marcurio’s smile was wicked and cruel. “Oh, I bet he wishes he was. Want to hear what I did with him?” When Mohamara nodded, the mage-thief started off on the story.  
  
\--  
  
The Twilight Sepulcher, the temple of Nocturnal, was as dark and unknown as Nocturnal herself. While in the seemingly Nordic structure Marcurio could feel eyes on him constantly. Things moved in the dark, and more than once he had turned behind him to see eyes watching him from afar.  
  
When he’d first arrived, he was confronted with a ghost. The spectral form of Gallus, now in the post-death phase of his service. Gallus informed Marcurio that since the Skeleton Key had been stolen, the Sepulcher and everything in it was running on the temple’s residual power. Even the Nightingale sentries. Most had lost their minds in the struggle to remain solvent enough to defend the temple from intruders--Gallus was only spared by being relatively new.  
  
And when Marcurio had informed him of who was cocooned in prismatic silk and slung over his shoulder, Gallus very nearly went rabid in the attempt to get at Mercer. Fortunately, a kick to the head was an effective way to knock the sense into a ghost.  
  
“Hands off, he belongs to Nocturnal,” Marcurio had said, sour about being made to do this task. “I guess we all do. But he will face her punishment directly.”  
  
“I almost pity you, Mercer,” Gallus snarled with spectral vitriol. “You will be the first person since the Grey Fox to taste Nocturnal’s fury.”  
  
Mercer occasionally tried to break free, but Yehochanan’s thread held fast. The only times Marcurio had even seen the thread strain was as Kipgolsik flew through clouds--water was not kind to the silk.  
  
There was a section of the temple that was totally dark, with brazier’s that lit up a rough path to safely traverse. But the trick was that the light burned like acid--even when Marcurio created light of his own.  
  
That room was the highlight of the early temple. After that, it was mostly straightforward. All the doors were trapped, anything valuable clearly displayed was trapped, any trap that could be spotted was a decoy meant to disguise a cleverer trap nearby.  
  
Having a useful weight that, while free to be abused, still needed to be kept alive was useful and irksome at various points throughout the dungeon crawl. At one point, a Nightingale sentinel had surprised Marcurio so much that the mage-thief bludgeoned her to re-death with Mercer as the weapon.  
  
But then he came to a pit. It was clearly the only way forward, but the presence of human remains at the bottom didn’t bode well for his odds of it being progress. However, if necessary he could climb back out by gripping the wall. Alteration and Nightingale powers played _absurdly_ well together.  
  
The pit was an illusion, that dissolved at some cue from the Skeleton Key. Mercer’s attempts to get free became frantic after Marcurio put the Key back into an altar that appeared out of what had been the pit. The whole room changed, three doorways grew from the walls, the altar rose up and became a basin filled with violet water that flowed into the doorways, and moon dials appeared over the paths they took.  
  
And from the water, preceded by a murder of crows, was Nocturnal. She talked like Marcurio’s father, he realized as she monologued without giving Marcurio a way to cut in edgewise. So he made one for himself.  
  
“Hey, I don’t mean to be rude, but there’s a traitor shaped mammoth in the room that needs to be dealt with,” he had said and indicated Mercer, attempting to inchworm his way away from them.  
  
“... You brought him alive?” Nocturnal seemed perplexed by this. “I suppose you thought I would be pleased to have one of my debtors brought back to me unspoiled. Hmph.” The Prince of Night flicked her dainty hands in Mercer’s direction. More crows emerged from the Oblivion portal and enveloped Mercer’s wriggling body.  
  
He screamed when the birds were on their way, but froze and went quiet as they gently landed on him. The mercer-shaped murder of crows was still for a long moment and then scattered. When they left, there was no sign of Mercer, only a gleaming metal screw that rolled gently away from where he had lain.  
  
“Mercer faces his punishment now. But I am not Azura or Meridia, whose vengeance burns hot. He would have suffered just as much had you sent his soul to me. Make a note of that in the future.” The Daedra’s business-like expression didn’t soften, but her eyes became less inscrutable as Marcurio met her gaze. “But I owe my sister a debt for helping you do your duty. And my first nephew deserves a token of affection for making a place for me in his heart when his sisters did not.”  
  
“I’m sure whatever you give will be most appreciated, Ma’am.”  
  
“‘Ma’am’?’ Hmm, I like that. Certainly more than ‘Lady Nocturnal’.” Darkness tendrils reached out from the shadows on the room and gathered to form a single marble-sized sphere of un-light, that devoured the light that dared touch it. “Here. My nephew has been in my sister’s shadow for so long, he has forgotten there is beauty and protection in the dark. Place this into his right eye, and he will see.”  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio did not tell the part about the un-light to Mohamara. Neither did he tell the cat that he held the mote of un-light in his pocket. It was something that he had intended to bring up when the cat was more accepting of physical contact. It seemed an important milestone to hit before asking to shove a ball of Daedric darkness _into someone’s eyeball_. But the thought gave Marcurio an idea for how to follow up his story.  
  
“So, the dragon took me back to Riften--Kipgolsik, he’s deceptively endearing, and I say that because he is one-thousand percent going to doublecross me someday--and I remembered that you are missing rather important bits of your skeleton.” Marcurio smiled to look sly, but it had a negative effect.  
  
Mohamara’s ears went flat against his skull. “They’re not missing, they’re just… not Khajiit. It’s like I have Human bones stuck in my fingers and toes.”  
  
“I apologize, that was rude. So, I happen to know a face sculptor in Riften and I talked to her about your situation. We’re really lucky that it wasn’t something with your skull because according to her Khajiit sinuses are _ridiculously_ easy to screw up. But she’s certain she can fix your claw problem.” Marcurio cleared his throat, realizing in hindsight how awkward this had been to bring up right after the story. “I can certify that she’s not a goose, she’s done… rather extensive work on me in the past.”  
  
The cat’s ears swept forward in curiosity. “Scar removal?”  
  
“Well, yes though she doens't enjoy doing those. But also more….” Marcuriro gestured vaguely to his torso. “Invasive work.”  
  
“Oh, well thank you. But… from what I remember of the procedure, it hurts like a bitch. So I’m going to be putting that off as long as possible. And, considering all the nice things you’ve done for me, I was sort of wondering how I could do something nice for you?” Mohamara kicked his short legs back and forth over the Helgen wall. “I mean, this isn’t a one-way street, this relationship. Gotta have some give along with the take, yeah?”  
  
“Hmmm.” Marcurio stopped to consider this development. He’d honestly expected to have to court the cat way more than he had to see a return on the emotional investment. Mohamara had been described as ‘severely depressed’, after all. “Well I had a list, but like an idiot, I didn’t think to bring it with me when I brought your presents.” He leaned over to the cat as close as he could without crossing the ‘no touching without permission boundary’. “By the way. Chillrend, a legendary magical sword of unknown providence. And a set of carved camphor laurel brushes and combs, with complimentary shampoo and scented fur oil. Imported from Elsweyr.”  
  
“They have camphor laurels in Elsweyr?”  
  
“Mostly in the southern half. But back on topic“ Marcurio considered the situation, and decided honesty to be the best policy. “Well, we’re sort of in a no-win situation on that front. I’m independently wealthy, and can afford most material goods, or steal them when I can’t.” He snapped his fingers and pointed at Mohamara. “By the way, your enchanted stuff sells really well on the black market.”  
  
The cat actually blushed a bit and looked flattered. “You’ve been stealing my products?”  
  
“Of course I have, you’re the best enchanter in Tamriel. I would be insulting you by not stealing the stuff you make.”  
  
Marcurio’s blunt admittance to theft seemed to have the opposite effect on Mohamara than what Marcurio had expected. In place of outrage, he saw the cat acting bashful.  
  
“I guess… I just didn’t think anything I made would be _worth_ you stealing yourself, yeah?” The cat twiddled his thumbs and avoided Marcurio’s gaze.  
  
“Mohamara, everything you make is worth stealing. Everything _about_ you is worth me spending my precious time stealing, and selling to the highest bidder. Never doubt that, not for a moment.”  
  
That got the cat to look up at him in confusion. “Is that some weird Khajiit flirting that you learned from Ahkari?”  
  
“Is it working?”  
  
“...Not really.”  
  
“Then yes, it is. And I apologize for the poor attempt.” Marcurio’s usual smug grin became good-natured. “But back to the topic. From my upbringing, for better or for worse, the only non-material way of expressing affection I can remember are acts of physical intimacy. No, not like that,” Marcurio said when Mohamara’s face and ears turned cherry red. “Well, yes, like that. But not in this context. Hand-holding, brushing each other’s hair, exchange of kisses, painting nails, stuff like that.” Marcurio glanced at Mohamara’s hands and squinted. “I don’t think you even have fingernails for me to paint. Anyway, all of this flies in face of your ‘no touching’ policy.”  
  
“No touching without permission,” Yehochanan was quick to correct the Imperial.  
  
“Yes, that.”  
  
“I’m glad that you’re still keeping to that.” The cat noted the sun rising above Bleak Falls Barrow far in the distance. They had been talking for a long time. “Given you’re… well, the Mad God picked you. And now you say you belong to Nocturnal. She doesn’t exactly play _nice_ with Meridians. Day and Night, you know how it is.”  
  
“I do,” Marcurio agreed. “But… she’s your aunt, isn’t she?”  
  
“Perhaps. Nocturnal’s origins are unknown, she’s possibly one of the first generation of et’Ada. Or one of the eldest second generation. And even if she is, I know nothing about her as a person.” The cat sighed. “But… you’re right. If she’s my aunt, then I’ll give her the chance to be honest with her intentions, if any.” The cat shrugged. “I mean, come on. She probably has way more important stuff to do than plan bad things happening to one Khajiit.”  
  
Meanwhile, in Evergloam, Nocturnal sat on her throne of darkest midnight while a line of corvids stretched out before her into the twilight city. When the line shifted forward, a new corvid bird flapped to their Daedra’s hand where she preened them and collected the feathers they had shed. Once done, she would end the preening with a bored ‘next!’  
  
Back on Nirn, Mohamara got a sudden idea. “I can teach you how to fly!”  
  
Marcurio seemed stunned, then cleared his throat. “You do remember that’s illegal, right? Flying magic?”  
  
The cat shrugged. “Who's going to stop you when you can literally go up higher than they can shoot arrows?” Without further thought, the tojay hopped off the Helgen wall and walked on the thin air like it was substantial. “I can’t teach you to do the really complex stuff, but once you get the basics you should be able to figure it out yourself.”  
  
“Isn’t that… Mysticism magic?” Marucio squinted to make sure no one on the ground level of Helgen was attempting to look up Mohamara’s robe, then focused on the cat.  
  
“Not really? Technically, all levitation magics are jointly Mysticism and Alteration. But I’ve been starting to realize that even though Mysticism uses magicka too, it isn’t _magic_ per se. It can accomplish a lot of what other schools of magic do, but with its own twist. For instance, I don’t think Alteration levitation magic lets you do this!” Mohamara hopped up and then started to sink into the air before he was propelled upward by some unseen force. With his tojay jump height, he went substantially higher than the wall, and did a series of flips and twists before he came back down to… somehow sit on the air. Whatever he was doing seemed less solid than before, as he bobbed up and down for a moment. “Invisible trampolines!”  
  
Marcurio could see _so many uses_ for what Mohamara had shown him, but more than that he was happy that the Khajiit was willing to trust him with what before was something exclusively Mohamara could do. He hadn’t even taught it to his students!   
  
The Praefect left in charge of Helgen’s Legion forces had just finished telling off the guard on the wall for sleeping instead of doing his Stendarr damned duty and shoved the Auxillary out through the tower door. She watched the Colovian boy scramble to get into his patrol routine, and found something drawing her attention out of the corner of her eye.  
  
Two mages, one a pink child-sized Khajiit in a hedge wizard’s robe, and the other a Nibenese Imperial in bizarre College of Winterhold robes chasing each other through the thin air. Strangely they were singing as they did so, about flying kites. The cat seemed the more proficient at air walking/running and was consistently able to keep away from the Imperial. However, it was enough to convince the Praefect that she was actually dreaming. And the horrible thought of dreaming her work life made her decide to put in for her medical leave as soon as she woke up.  
  
\--  
  
When he next arrived at the Tooth to check on the progress being made, he found two Riften guards standing near the road. “Hold,” one of the men with a Whiterun accent declared. “Jarl Laila Law-Giver demands an audience with you in Mistveil Keep, Thane. We request you come peacefully.”  
  
The use of his title had been concerning, but the Guild would have sent someone to let him know if there was a bounty on him in Riften. And the Jarl’s steward was a Guild member as well, so he suspected that there was an emergency that needed his help to deal with. “Of course I will come peacefully,” the Imperial told the guards. “Come, we must make haste--it is unseemly to make the Jarl wait.”  
  
With haste, the three of them made their way to Riften, and then to Mistveil Keep. One of the only stone structures in Riften, Mistveil was a run-down castle on the outside, but past the outermost walls it was still a Jarl’s palace in decor and luxury. Laila’s entrance hall was also her throne room and feasting hall. It had been a tradition for the Jarl of Riften to always have food on their table, to feed their citizens when they could not feed themselves. But as the beggars out in the city had found, the tradition was merely pretty words.  
  
Laila lounged on her throne when the guards escorted Marucrio in. She was only a year or two older than Maven and with red hair from her Solitude mother making her a rare beauty in the Rift. Her face was pensive, not a good sign in Marcurio’s books. Laila’s Stormcloak fanboy son Harrald drew steel as Marcurio approached the foot of the stairs that led up to the Jarl’s throne.  
  
“Good, that the guards did not have to bring you to us in chains gives me hope,” spoke Laila Law-Giver. She sounded genuinely relieved, but her choice of words made the thief-mage believe he had been wrong to assume an emergency was in progress.  
  
Marcurio glanced at the Jarl’s steward, a Bosmer woman named Anuriel. She had once been a top member of the Thieves Guild, the best at forging numbers. But, according to Brynjolf, when Gallus died and the Guild devolved into civil war, she had opposed Mercer’s ascension on the grounds that Gallus hadn’t kept tradition and named a successor--it was the responsibility of the senior Guild members to select one. Mercer couldn’t trust her for not supporting him, but couldn’t kill her because all she had done was propose following Guild rules. So she’d been quietly moved out of the Guild proper, and into Maven’s side of things.  
  
The steward was not giving him any of the warning signs, which meant that this was a situation that could be handled with his improvisational skills.  
  
“My Jarl, it is part of my duty as Thane to give hope--to you and the people of the Rift.” Marcurio bowed deep before her, and completely disregarded the glare the Jarl’s son directed at him. “Tell me what I must do to put an end to your troubles, and it will be done.”  
  
Laila was a sucker for theatrics, it was why Marcurio had talked with Maven about opening a bard’s college in Riften to compete with Solitude’s. Construction was due to start in Frostfall.  
  
The Jarl sighed, happy that the situation was becoming more to what she was accustomed. “It is a simple matter. One I am sure you can explain to our liking.” The Jarl struck the heel of one hand with the fingers of her other, a signal of some sort.  
  
From behind her, the double doors deeper into the Keep opened, and two burly men in the bear fur trimmed armor of Stormcloak officers entered in. One was the bald-headed Gonnar Oath-Giver, Stormcloak military commander for the Rift. The other was far more concerning, being the battle-scarred, gray-bearded, mean old sonuvabitch of a Nord, Galmar Stone-Fist. Second in command of the Stormcloak armies.  
  
“Our scouts have reported you frequently coming and going between the Rift and Helgen,” Laila informed Marcurio with a serene expression. She seemed unaffected by the dour men flanking her. “Helgen happens to be the mustering point for many of the Empire’s forces in the south of Skyrim. And rumor has it that the Legion is developing secret magical weapons there. Galmar here questions your loyalty to the Rift, and to our cause. Please, tell us the truth and let us go back to being friends.”  
  
The thief-mage’s mind worked quickly like he was explaining to his father why he had been out all night with the girls as a teenager. Exactly the sort of reason he became a Guild member, situations like this.  
  
“Well, my Jarl, my friend, I must say I’m rather offended.” Marcurio put on a tone of affront and crossed his arms. “After all I’ve done for the Rift, in one year mind you, I would have thought you would bring these concerns to my attention before it got so severe.”  
  
Laila looked genuinely remorseful but shook her head. “I know and were it my decision I would do so. But Galmar insisted, and with so much on the line I could not refuse him.”  
  
“The more eyes on you, _Imperial_ ,” Galmar spat, literally spat, the word out, “the easier it is to spot a lie.”  
  
“Well, if you must know, I’ve been sneaking into Helgen frequently to discover intelligence about the town and the Legion forces garrisoned there.” Marcurio took from his satchel bag a journal he used to keep track of guard patrol timings and easy access points before he had them memorized. Originally, he’d planned to put them in the Guild’s records, but he could make a second copy.   
  
The journal was passed to Laila’s housecarl, who in turn took it up to her. And after she read through it, she passed it to Galmar. Galmar didn’t seem _happy_ with the intelligence, but he didn’t become any angrier from it.  
  
“Why, you may ask? Because I’ve been planning a rescue attempt.” Just as the housecarl was coming back down the stairs, Marcurio thrust another item into his hands. A rolled up cloth portrait, a copy of the one Sheogorath had provided of Mohamara during the interview process. “My beloved has been conscripted into the Legion--because he was skilled with the making of magic items and lived in Haafingar. I had been trying to get him to come and stay with me so we may be wed, but General Tullius’ timing was better than mine.”  
  
When the housecarl handed Mohamara’s portrait to Laila, she became like a woman thirty years younger. Cooing and squealing at the tojay’s adorable face. “Oh, Marcurio, he’s the single cutest thing I’ve ever seen!” She hastily leaned over to show Anuriel, who had much the same reaction. All the while the Stormcloaks looked down at the development with befuddlement. At least Gonnar gave a little ‘aww, how cute’ when Laila showed him the cat.  
  
“He’s even cuter with his fur dye in. Tojay Khajiit are small, they don’t grow higher than a man’s waist, so they dye their fur when they’re grown up. My love favors pinks for his coloring.”  
  
The mental image got both the Jarl and the steward squealing like delighted children. Galmar’s expression became increasingly one of disgust.  
  
“With someone as adorable, small, and not a fighter on his own, I worry for his safety. And his virtue.” The thief-mage’s face was a mask of grim seriousness. “You _know_ the types of people in the Legion, my Jarl. And I’m sure you know what happens when someone is too weak to fight back.”  
  
All the delight bled out of Laila. Suddenly, she was as a Jarl should be, grand and with a palpable presence. “I am convinced,” she said and glared to meet Galmar’s look of disgust. “Are you?”  
  
“...Feh, fine. What your nobles sheathe their blades in isn’t my concern,” Galmar dismissively waved the Jarl off. “I’ll tell Ulfric it’s a problem you can deal with.”  
  
“Good. Now, onto other business.” Laila looked down to Marcurio again, still pretending she was a Jarl to be respected. “The Stormcloaks are planning a two-pronged offensive against the Legion. In the south, we will hit Helgen and either take it for ourselves or render it useless to the Empire. Fort Neugrad has already fallen to us, and they haven’t even noticed.”  
  
Neither had Marcurio, which surprised the thief-mage. Who knew loud Nords in bear fur armor could be sneaky?  
  
“The goal is to destroy whatever weapon the Empire is building there and to capture General Tullius, whom our scouts say is due to visit the town in a week’s time. Meanwhile, in the north, Ulfric’s fleet will attack Solitude directly while they are still rebuilding. If all goes well, we will decapitate both heads of the Empire’s forces in Skyrim.”  
  
“ _Why_ are you telling all this to one of your nobles,” Galmar demanded to know.  
  
The Jarl stood from her throne and loomed over Galmar. With her heeled boots and natural height, she was substantially taller than the Stormcloak. “Because he is my friend, because he gave us intel about Helgen we can use, and because I _trust him_.” Perhaps she was pretending so much that she was legitimately believing herself to be a Jarl, and worth being respected and feared. Anuriel was certainly surprised at the fire from Laila. “Without him, the Rift wouldn’t have the food or the gold to support this rebellion as we have, and his loyalty is no longer in question. Is _that_ enough for you, soldier?”  
  
Galmar seemed to find the whole situation amusing all of a sudden. “Heh, where has this side of you been all these years? Perhaps Ulfric and you would get along better if you were like this more often. Perhaps even enough to be his first wife.”  
  
“My Jarl, can I trust the forces you are to send against Helgen to _not_ murder my beloved, or _worse_? Or should I make a rescue attempt before you tear the garrison’s walls down around them?” Marcurio cut into the dialogue between Jarl and foreign military advisor with practiced ease. He’d done it too often with his father. And he'd seen too many chauvanistic old Nords make comments like Galmar's about either Marcurio, or Marcurio's aunts, to consent to stay longer.  
  
“Of course he will be safe,” Laila warmly said to the thief-mage. Then she snapped back to Galmar, sharp as steel. “You hear that? The cat is to be a person taken alive, and unharmed. If, after the attack’s success, I find out that your boys so much as made a _rude gesture_ to this,” she opened up the portrait of Mohamara again and cooed at his image, “adorable thing….” The Jarl looked at Galmar with an expression that made Marcurio wonder if she was perhaps slightly mad. “I will have you _crucified_. Am I understood?”  
  
It was then that both members attending figured out, at long last, how to incense Laila Law-Giver into a productive fury: Imply or provided evidence of harm to cats. Ahkari was going to be gleeful to find this out, Marcurio decided. Perhaps enough to request an audience. And if Laila had this reaction with _all_ Khajiit, they might just make out like bandits.  
  
But still, Marcurio shelved those ponderings for later as he left Mistveil Keep and went down to the ratways and then to the Guild. This two-pronged attack was going to present plenty of opportunities for the Guild in both Falkreath and Solitude, and they needed people in place to clean up the mess no matter who won.  
  
And it was long overdue that Marcurio talked to Delvin about contacting the Dark Brotherhood for a special job: The assassination of Ulfric Stormcloak.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of background: Laila's never actually seen a Khajiit, or even a cat, before. She's only heard them described, never even seen a picture of one.


	36. The Helgen Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You want to know what happens when you combine empathy and lots of pain? Bad things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only certainties in life are death and taxes.

 

  
\---  
**Chapter 36: The Helgen Incident**  
  
“Master, I was wondering… could you tell us about your realm?”  
  
Mohamara looked up from grating cheese for his latest pizza attempt to squint at Orthorn. While the High Elf had been… lackluster as a traditional mage, he had proven exceedingly competent as a battlemage and enchanter. Orthorn had already started on practicing Mandala linework, something even Mohamara avoided like the plague. His inquiry seemed earnest enough, though from how Mohamara’s other students neglected their work _ever so slightly_ so they could listen in, the Khajiit guessed that they had been planning this for a while.  
  
“Forgive me if I’ve been impertinent,” the High Elf quickly clasped his hands and held them up as he bowed. It was something he found all the students doing when they felt the need to apologize--perhaps a version of the pose of supplication? “It’s just… we know so little about you, and you’ve taught us so much. We would love to know about the domain you rule.”  
  
“Well, that’s an easy question. I don’t rule a domain.” The Khajiit shrugged and went back to grating cheese. “I come from far, _far_ in the future. When Men, Mer, and Beastfolk travel by ships that ride on the winds to get everywhere. Where people live in giant towering buildings. And where everyone in the world, and every topic, can be found just by speaking into a looking glass.”  
  
Mohamara was sure that whatever they imagined from his description was far more entertaining than the reality. Once the block of goat cheese was grated, he quickly went to his storage chest and retrieved his slate to show them.  
  
“This is _my_ looking glass, a slate. More mobile than a grimoire or an archive, but it sacrifices power to do so. Charged by magicka, and host to many servitors to make life easier.”  
  
“That’s the mark of House Telvanni on the back,” the only Dunmer among his best students commented with amazement.  
  
“Yeah, House Telvanni becomes the Telvanni corporation. They’re the leading experts in enchanting--I was taking a course to find employment with them before….” Mohamara drooped a bit remembering the unpleasantness of his first arrival to the Fourth Era. He shook those feelings off before his students lept to conclusions. “Anyway, let that be something to take with you. Yes, I’m the best at what I do right now. But in the future, what I know is something expected of the dimmest students. Don’t think you can’t possibly do better than me, even I’m still learning.”  
  
“Can you tell us more about this future you come from, Lord?” Orthorn asked, excited by whatever he was imagining from what Mohamara had shared.  
  
“Alright, one question each and then you go back to your work.”  
  
The Dunmer student, Galamir Vedulis, of course, asked about Morrowind’s future. And Mohamara had to tell him gently that Morrowind got the living annihilation shit kicked out of it from the Fourth Era to the Ninth. The Dunmer’s province was a prolonged series of ‘how could this possibly get worse?’ questions that were immediately answered. Even the Elven Empire that came to rule didn’t treat them well, the _Orcs_ got better treatment than the Dunmer. But rather than sink into despair, his student seemed to draw resolve from Mohamara’s answer.  
  
“Then I will do my best to learn from you, that I may pass on the kindness you have shown me, and make the lives of my people a little better,” declared the student. “We can’t stop natural disasters, or wars breaking out, but we can make individual people’s lives happier.”  
  
Thankfully the remaining questions weren’t as heavy.  
  
“Can you show us something from your looking glass… slate?” A Bosmer student, Brenelin, asked next, which set up an opportunity for a group portrait. Once they’d all lined up on the wall, Mohamara set a timer and joined them. Afterward, he showed it to them, and explained how the servitor captured the image and could burn it off onto any surface--he demonstrated this with a page from a blank journal.  
  
“Does everyone wear clothes like this in the future?” A Redguard woman, Traynda, held up one of Mohamara’s future shirts and his swimsuit to highlight the difference between Fourth Era and Twenty-First Era clothes. Most of the students hadn’t seen Mohamara’s future clothes before, and found the worked textiles _bizarre_ , judging by their expressions.  
  
“There’s a variety of options, and _stop going through my stuff!_ ” Mohamara actually snapped at the Redguard student and jumped up to snatch his clothes back and stuff them back in his storage chest. “By the Red Room, waving a man’s personal things around like that--shame on you, missy.” At least his other students had the decency to look like they _hadn’t_ snooped and found those that did _disgraceful_. The tojay never noticed.  
  
“What do you mean when you say ‘Red Room?’ You refer to a lot of rooms by color, and often use Malacath in your oaths, sir.”  
  
“That last bit isn’t a question,” Mohamara stuck his tongue out at Orthorn who had asked. “The Red Room is one of Meridia’s Colored Rooms. It’s where she marshalls her armies for when they need to leave her plane of Oblivion and either attack another plane or come to Nirn. The proper name is Where War is Made. Mortals who worship Meridia, and die craving vengeance, are sent there to become warriors of the faith.” The cat returned to throwing shredded cheese onto the proto-pizza he was going to cook once the fire got hot enough.  
  
“What is the music in the future like?”  
  
The question came from the only Khajiit among his students. Adannna, a cathay woman--thin as a whip but the best Alchemist of the bunch. Without sparring much thought, Mohamara barked out an order for his Burmice servitor to play a random song at fifty-percent volume.  
  
The [music ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cfzmjgpx-VE)that came on was an acoustic guitar, and brass trumpets, instruments that hadn’t been invented yet, and a language that also hadn’t been discovered yet. A song from the Shivering Isles, strangely enough. The song sang a plaintive cry from the singer to be remembered by those whom they had to leave soon.  
  
“That’s the Lilmothiit language,” Mohamara cut off any questions preemptively. “They didn’t go extinct, they just escaped to the Daedric realms of Sanguine, Clavicus Vile, and Sheogorath. The species returns to Tamriel a few thousand years from now and bring about the changes that lead to the beginning of the Tenth Era.”  
  
“It’s _beautiful_ ,” Orthorn commented. “W-what does it mean?”  
  
“How about you study Conjuration, work out a deal with some Daedra from the realms I told you they live, and _ask them_?” Mohamara sighed. The Lilmothiit he’d known weren’t the _worst_ people, but having met Sheogorath and Clavicus Vile the Khajiit saw too clearly where the _issues_ that frequently plagued the fox-folk came from. Which in turn reminded him of a hasty warning he had to give Orthorn before the High Elf actually _did_ as Mohamara instructed. “And--be advised. You’ll get the most direct questions answered from the ones in Sanguine’s realm… but they chose to live in _Sanguine’s_ realm so expect them to act like perverts.”  
  
Mohamara paused in his cheese distribution as his students went back to their tasks. A horrible thought had wormed its way into his head: Was he being racist against the fox-folk?  
  
“Only a little bit,” Sheogorath commented from within Mohamara’s ears. “Not nearly as racist as you’ve been against Nords in the past, though. Also, that pizza doesn’t have _nearly enough cheese_!”  
  
\--  
  
Chillrend, being a malachite glass sword, the weapon was significantly lighter and thinner than a steel sword made in the Nordic style. And because it was a shortsword, or a long dagger according to Hadvar, it was one of the rare weapons Mohamara could wield one-handed and still seem like a threat.  
  
Since the addition of students ate up Mohamara’s workload almost faster than the Legion could add to it, the cat had free time to learn how to wield a sword. Even if Hadvar admitted he was convinced that without far more substantial muscles, and _way_ more weight, Mohamara would never actually be a threat with a weapon.  
  
“But….” The cat had said after Hadvar confessed the doubts. “My niece, she’s ten years old. And Yagraz doesn’t hesitate to tell me how dangerous she is with a blade. I’m only slightly shorter and lighter than her….”  
  
“Well, your niece has the benefit of being taught by the greatest warrior the Companions, an order of great warriors, have seen since the start of the Era.” Hadvar shrugged. “If you want to train with a blade for exercise, or even just knowledge of how to use it, I’ll teach you what I know. But I _very much_ doubt you’ll ever be able to use it in a fight.”  
  
“The Nord way to fight, and the Orc way to fight emphasize strength,” Yehochanan commented from Mohamara’s back. “You are neither a Nord or an Orc. What you have is speed, agility, and the power to always have the high ground. Don’t fight like a Nord soldier or an Orc champion; fight like a Khajiit Mystic. But if it can be avoided, do not fight at all.”  
  
“Nothing wrong with being a skirmisher,” Hadvar admitted with crossed arms. “It’s not my way, and I can’t teach it.”  
  
The spider-crab scuttled onto the Khajiit’s shoulder and down his arm. “Long before the Alterers figured out how to move things with magicka, the Psijics could turn the very terrain into their weapons. No boulder was too heavy to become a bludgeon, no spear too short to strike their foes.” Yehochanan gently took the sword from Mohamara’s grasp and held it away from his hand. Through their mutual connection, the spider-crab set up sympathetic bonds with where the sword was, and how it had felt in his hand.  
  
When the spider-crab released the sword, Chillrend stayed floating in the air. The blue malachite glass shortsword slowly rotated but stayed about a foot from Mohamara’s hand.  
  
Hadvar watched, amazed, as the cat bade the sword thrust, swing, or block without actually touching it at all. “If the Psijics could do stuff like that,” the Quaestor commented, “I understand why the Thalmor were so afraid of them.”  
  
“I’m also pretty sure this is illegal,” Mohamara muttered as he had Chillrend spin at great speed, turning it into a blue disk of death. “You’re supposed to have a license to even study telekinesis.”  
  
Yehochanan clacked his claws like castanets. “Those laws are restrictions for a society that doesn’t exist yet.”  
  
“Can you do that with… other things?” Hadvar asked.  
  
Both cat and Daedric spider-crab looked at each other, suddenly full of ideas.  
  
\--  
  
When General Tullius and his guard arrived in Helgen, it was to find that the military town had an _undue_ level of frivolity about it. Right in the marketplace were members of the Legion, tossing objects of various sizes for a Legion conscript to catch and juggle. What was alarming was that these items were so numerous that it formed almost a perfect circle. And to General Tullius’ eye, he could tell that cat wasn’t actually touching any of the objects he was ‘juggling’, just moving his hands near them as they came down.  
  
It made the townsfolk happy enough, but it was also _not_ what the cat had been paid for.  
  
While the General consulted with the local Praefect about the state of the garrison, he had Rikke break up the waste of the Legion’s time and bring the cat--his soon to be _son-in-law_ in for a formal review.  
  
The cat, with his eyesight back _again_ , seemed more confident and _distinctly_ pinker than when the General last had a private chat with him.  
  
On the Praefect’s desk, appropriated for Tullius’ use, was the documentation of the cat’s productivity, field reviews of the enchanted items he’d provided, and testimonials about working with the Khajiit. The General and the conscript sat in silence while these were reviewed until the General set the last one down and steepled his fingers.  
  
“...You’re wearing earrings,” Seneca Tullius broke the silence with an observation and an arched brow.  
  
“Marcurio gave them to me,” the Khajiit responded, not afraid of the General but still tense.  
  
“Hmm. I wonder who they belonged to before he stole them.”  
  
Mohamara’s expression became hostile, understandably. The cat sat straighter and glared to meet Tullius’ withering look. “Marcurio didn’t steal them, he told me so.”  
  
“And you believed him? He’s been stealing from the Legion, from _you_ , and from other people across Skyrim who don’t know to put his face to their hardships. He’s a thief, and only stupid people trust thieves.” Tullius leaned forward and rose both eyebrows as he looked down at the cat. “Are you stupid, Mr. Ahramani?”  
  
Surprisingly, the cat shrugged. “A little bit, yeah. Everyone’s stupid sometimes.” Tullius did not see it, but the cat began to work magic upon him. He connected the General to a bound up lump of excess kindness that Yehochanan had extracted from his brain earlier that morning. He noticed a faint flash of pink in the General’s eyes, but no other change.  
  
“I suppose you’re right. We’ll see how much you trust him in a year’s time.” Tullius leaned back in his borrowed seat. “Please understand that I do understand--Marcurio is charming, he has a gift for worming into people’s hearts. But he’s also not above using those gifts to get himself ahead, I’ve seen that myself. I imagine Jarl Laila Law-Giver will come to realize that before the end of this madness.” The General lifted up a parchment and examined it once more. “But this isn’t a meeting to talk about my son or his debauched lifestyle. The point of this meeting is to review your performance since being assigned here. It’s come to my attention, per this report, that you’ve taken on some… students to bolster productivity. Naturally, these people will need to be entered into the Legion’s records and--”  
  
As it turned out, spending almost four hours talking about paperwork that needed to be filled out, then filling out that paperwork, finding out that the paperwork had been the _wrong_ paperwork and doing the correct paperwork was a form of suffering Mohamara didn’t know existed. It was somehow worse than filing his taxes. Which, when Mohamara made the comparison, prompted General Tullius to call in Hadvar and fill out the cat’s Haafingar, Skyrim, and Imperial taxes. Which took _another_ four hours.  
  
“...Sign here to authorize the Legion to quarter soldiers in the pending settlement on your property,” Hadvar said with the same cheer he’d had at the start of the process and put a parchment in front of Mohamara.  
  
The cat groaned like a Draugr and was about to sign when he paused. “There’s an old Dragon Cult fortress built into the end of the valley, can I lease that to the Legion instead?”  
  
“You’re not the first Skyrim landowner to ask that,” Tullius commented. “No, you cannot. Nordic ruins don’t meet the building requirements for Legion encampments. However the paperwork your people filed with Elisif’s court suggests that they intend to use that fortress as the starting point for their settlement. So whatever Legion forces we send there, if any, would have to help construct the settlement to be quartered there legally.”  
  
Mohamara squinted, still with the pen ready to sign. “Are you saying I can use Imperial bureaucracy to help my people build their settlement _faster_?”  
  
The General met Mohamara’s eyes with a blank expression. “The Legion is good for more than just killing people, son. _Someone’s_ going to have to build the roads to and from this settlement and Solitude.”  
  
“...A’ight,” Mohamara shrugged and signed and dated the document. “Not going to turn down help I’m paying taxes for.”  
  
“And already you’re better than legitimately _half_ this province.”  
  
Hadvar frowned slightly, but added the document to the stack of paperwork and brought forth another when a horn sounded from outside the building. “General, that’s the--”  
  
“I know the enemy forces horn, soldier.” Tullius stood and nonchalantly walked around the desk. “The only Stormcloak encampment in the area recently lost half their men to that Hagraven’s coven, yes? Then they’re starving and want a warrior’s death because we’ve gotten no reports from Fort Neugrad about reinforcements--”  
  
A rock that could only have been launched from a trebuchet struck the building, burst through the window and crushed the desk where General Tullius had been moments before. Thankfully Hadvar saved the paperwork.  
  
Tullius seemed rather adaptive to the situation, in all honesty. “Or the gods can decide I’m wrong on all counts. That works too.”  
  
\--  
  
With the Red Shoes enchantment and Mystic telekinesis, it proved almost too easy to get the civilians over the city walls and headed toward Riverwood and Falkreath. The Stormcloaks outnumbered the Legion garrison, but the Legion had spent weeks benefiting from an increasing stockpile of Mohamara’s enchanted items. It took the eastern gate being taken out by trebuchet fire to let Ulfric’s boys and girls get into Helgen proper because the archers were cutting them down before they could get their siege ladders up.  
  
Mohamara had his students go with the townspeople to see them safely on their journey, and spent his time zooming around with the Red Shoes enchantment to heal people, enchant rocks with Explosive Runes and lobb them into the Stormcloak ranks, and in general, made a nuisance of himself.  
  
Unfortunately, the Stormcloaks having far, _far_ more men, and trebuchet support meant that even with a combat healer keeping the Legion soldiers alive far longer than they should have been, they lost the town by inches.  
  
The order for retreat came from the General and would go through the keep since the north gate was blocked by a collapsed section of the wall. And, of course, Mohamara did not do the sensible thing and follow those orders right away, but attempted to combine the Red Shoes enchantment and telekinesis to retrieve injured Legionnaires. It also occurred to him, while he did so, that he could just launch people over the walls. Not even Legionnaires, he could do so with Stormcloaks.  
  
Four Legion soldiers had been retrieved and twenty-plus Stormcloaks had been flung over the walls when they got too close before someone managed to put an end to the cat’s nonsense.  
  
A vicious bear of a Stormcloak officer, armored in literal bear fur, managed to sneak up on the cat when he wasn’t looking and bring down his iron battleax on the pink Khajiit’s tail. The cat froze and puffed up right away, with only a hissing ‘f’ noise escaping his clenched jaw.  
  
Sheogorath watched the battle from on the slopes of the mountain, eating tundra cotton out of a sack like popcorn while a Hagraven looked on through opera glasses. “Moira, dear girl,” the Mad God said as a palpable tension developed in the air, “do you ever get the feeling that something real bad is about to happ--”  
  
He was cut off by a shockwave erupting from Helgen. A cacophonous scream of agony echoed through the surrounding land--and the Mad God was in a particularly good spot to watch sympathetic bonds of hideous pain explode from Helgen to reach out to every living thing for miles. Every soldier in the Legion and Stormcloak armies aboveground found themselves writing or seizing from the flood of foreign pain assaulting them. Faintly, he could make out a particularly naughty word in the scream.  
  
The snow on the slopes of the Throat of the World shook free in a legendary avalanche that would be spoken of for decades to come. Trees bent and caught fire from the strain. A dragon was knocked from the air and pinned to Kyne’s sacred mountain as the snow passed. And the town of Helgen itself saw the mortar holding its stonework together vibrate itself to dust. The physical sound of the scream was audible as far north as Solstheim and as far south as the Imperial City.  
  
“Ooh, boy’s got some _lungs_ on him.”  
  
\--  
  
Meanwhile, far to the north Ulfric Stormcloak, proud Nord warrior, Tongue, and Jarl of Windhelm looked up at the sound of a cacophonous shout that echoed across the Sea of Ghosts. His navy was about to turn the cape and enter Solitude’s bay to begin their half of the attack. The strange omen disturbed his men, as it disturbed Ulfric. But they had come too far to let mere omens stop them.  
  
He went to the prow of the flagship, The High-King, and began to think of a speech that would put fire in the bellies of his men and get them spoiling for a fight.  
  
“Stormcloaks! Sons and Daughters of Skyrim! Harken to me! Today, we will cut off one head of the Imperial dragon looming our homeland. Think of all the cruelties we have faced up to this point, the hardships! Picture the faces of all you have lost to an Empire too weak to rule you, and too distant to give a _damn_ about you. Today, it ends! Today we will liberate the people of Haafingar! Today we--!”  
  
Ulfric’s speech was cut short by a second omen. A stone statue sailed through the air and smashed into the deck of his ship. To the Stormcloaks’ horror, even Ulfric, it bore the seeming of his trusted friend and second in command, Galmar Stone-Fist. The poor man’s face was frozen in a mask of horror and agony.  
  
“....go home. Today, we go home. Because neither the gods, or the winds, favor us.” All the fire was gone from Ulfric as he looked at the statue of his friend. As he did, water began to bubble up around the base of the statue, firmly punched through the hull.  
  
“Sho-should we… go to the lifeboats?” A closed-helmeted Stormcloak soldier asked the crew at large.  
  
“Yes,” Ulfric said, defeated. “That would probably be for the best.”  
\---  
 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You want to know the worst part? Mohamara has to do all that paperwork again because they got exploded. Poor guy.


	37. Pink Coats

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things be happening! Pink things!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have it on tape, he can't deny it anymore folks. Sheogorath hates cheese.

  
\---  
**Chapter 37: Pink Coats**  
  
“So.” General Tullius tapped his fingertips together while laid on his back on a cot. Around him, Legion Restorers and Alchemists administered healing to both the General and other wounded soldiers. The conscript’s ‘Pink Coats’, a name that apparently the Helgen rank and file had put to them, distributed magic baubles bewitched with regeneration and life support to the most grievously wounded. “How long have you been able to do… _that_?” The General winced as a healing balm was applied to the acid-like burns he had suffered on his arms and face from catching the explosion indirectly.  
  
Beside him, on his stomach with his now much shorter tail bandaged was the conscript, his future son-in-law. He was enchanting anything and everything his students put in front of him to help treat the soldiers--the stockpile they had built up over the weeks had already been distributed. It made the General realize: When he thought there were enough medical supplies stockpiled, he was wrong--no matter how much was being stockpiled, it wasn’t enough.  
  
“I found out as soon as you did,” the cat replied, glum. “They don’t exactly teach you how to _not_ become a living bomb in the schools I went to, you know?”  
  
“Hmm. Yes, I can see how that would be outside your skills.” General Tullius nodded like it was perfectly normal. “But I meant how long have the pieces of you that get cut off come to life?” He indicated the roof, where what had been the cat’s tail was wrapped around a rafter.  
  
It had traded fur for scales, and looked like an alarmingly flat snake, with the stripes that had been on the Khajiit’s tail now evenly spaced apart with… small numbers next to them, it looked like. The creature combined traits of constrictors and venomous snakes--specifically cobras. And it was glaring down at Seneca Tullius like it was _waiting_ for an excuse to leap down at him.  
  
“Oh, like a couple weeks? The spider-crab on my back, Yehochanan, used to be my hand that got chopped off.”  
  
Yehochanan paused in binding up a long piece of anxiety in his prismatic threads to clack at the General, producing a castanet-like sound.  
  
“Hmm. Interesting.” The General nodded. His neck had healed enough that he could do so without pain, a small blessing. “But profoundly disturbing.”  
  
The medical treatment ward they were set up in was located in the underground section of Helgen Keep. According to scout reports, it was impossible to access Fort Neugrad due to the entire structure being buried in an avalanche. And according to reports in Whiterun, the same was true of Valtheim Valley. Which meant that the only land route into or out of Stormcloak territory was now through the Pale. It also meant that if the snow didn’t clear in time that Whiterun Hold would develop a temporary lake.  
  
If the cabal of fire mages in Sunderstone Gorge proved amicable to being sub-contracted, the Legion could possibly get through to the Rift and cut off the Stormcloak food supplies when they couldn’t easily benefit from the Khajiit caravans anymore. Ulfric would have to use his pretty new warships to pillage Morrowind’s coast for food, and in turn, draw the wrath of the Great Houses.  
  
The General considered spreading propaganda that Ulfric was intending to re-take Solstheim to make the Dunmer even more likely to strike at the Stormcloaks. It could be useful for setting off the oil urn that was Windhelm’s Grey Quarter. But the General’s thoughts were interrupted by the Khajiit Pink Coat leaning over him.  
  
“Your burns are fully healed, please check in with your healer regularly in case it returns. You’re free to go, General.”  
  
“Thank you,” Tullius said as he stood up. And when he did, he noticed a blue malachite sword spinning at speed in one corner of the room, free of any way for it to being spun. It was spinning with sufficient speed that it cast a cool breeze on several Legion soldiers that had burned as a result of a fire. He observed this, looked down at the Khajiit, then back to the sword and decided he was _not drunk enough_ to be dealing with this level of magical madness.  
  
\--  
  
Its name was Qorach. It was made from violence done to the Master from without and served as the counterpart to Yehochanan who was born of violence from within. Yehochanan’s function was to help the Master keep from self-harm, but Qorach’s function was to keep him from harm. Period. So when the Master stood, and lamented the injury that had caused Qorach to be, the Daedric flat-snake went down to him and wrapped gently around his shoulders.  
  
Qorach had disguised itself to look like measuring tape specifically so that it would not be discovered until it was too late. It expected the Master to be repulsed by it, a serpent when the Master had suffered so much from the Serpent affecting him. But as soon as Qorach settled, the Master stroked it gently on the head. Yehochanan had the Master’s respect, their mutual connection allowed Qorach to perceive this. But the bond the Master put onto Qorach was different: Loved By Me was its name.  
  
Yehochanan was not bitter, he was not separate enough from the Master to feel such things. But Qorach shared with the spider-crab the Master’s love anyway. And content that the Master had not rejected it, the flat-snake coiled slightly tighter in an embrace and dedicated itself to its function: To watch the Master’s enemies, and poison them when they approached.  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara permitted his new snake to dip its head into the drink General Tullius had provided, that it could test for poison. He didn’t actually expect his soon to be father-in-law to poison him, but he wanted to get into the habit right away. The snake dipped its head into the milk and took a few mouthfuls before sending Mohamara an affirmative through their connection.  
  
General Tullius only looked mildly repulsed by the way Mohamara was accumulating fashion animals, and how affectionate he was being with a _snake_. “Don’t often see snakes in Skyrim.”  
  
The Khajiit scowled and drank his milk. “You can blame that one on Hjalti Early-Beard. He killed all the snakes in Skyrim. All of them, at least until breeders were able to develop recreations of Skyrim’s snake species. It’s part of why there’s such a skeever problem--no snakes to kill them before they get big.”  
  
The General had never heard that bit of information and filed it away under useless but interesting trivia. There were people who actively bred snakes. He decided that those were people not to be fucked with.  
  
General and conscript were seated in what had been the kitchens of Helgen keep. Once the last few Legionnaires were treated for their wounds, they would be marching for Falkreath along with what had been the Helgen civilians. Perhaps they could rebuild after the war, but it wasn’t yet certain where they would go--Falkreath was the only settlement left in the Hold and the single poorest Hold capital in Skyrim. Winterhold wasn’t even considered a settlement anymore as far as the Empire was concerned.  
  
Perhaps it had something to do with how Jarl Kraldr hadn’t cooperated with the Empire to clear out the Blood Horkers even before the Stormcloak rebellion. Titus Mede II had a petty streak too.  
  
“So, has Marcurio told you…?” Tullius tried to phrase it gently, lest the cat not be aware. It wasn’t Tullius’ secret to reveal, but he desperately wished for someone that wasn’t his son or his wife to talk about it with.  
  
“That you and he have a bad relationship? I sort of guessed, because he specifically asked me never to ask about you with him.” The cat arched an eyebrow and shrugged. “He said that the issues the two of you had were settled, and it wouldn’t do any good to bring it up again.”  
  
The General sighed and drank some of his wine. “Not that. But… I guess that’s as good as I could expect, given our past.”  
  
There was silence between them before the cat’s ears perked up. “Oh, did you mean that he used to have a woman’s body?”  
  
The _nonchalance_ of the Khajiit’s question stunned Tullius. According to records, he was a Skyrim native. He’d known the Nords were liberal on the subject of marriage--polygamy was a stable of Nordic families even in contemporary times. But the idea of a Provincial being so open-minded on as complex a topic as that shocked him. “I… yes. That.”  
  
“I only recently pieced it together,” Mohamara admitted. “He’d been making allusions to having a heavily feminine past, but the comments about seeing a face sculptor for invasive work really cinched it. I’m not bringing up to him until he’s ready to tell me himself, if he’s ever ready.”  
  
Tullius looked into his wine and found himself getting lost in memories. “You don’t wonder… who he used to be? When he discovered this about himself?”  
  
Mohamara squinted and realized the General wasn’t really talking to him anymore. A quick dive into sympathetic connections let him see the General was rapidly connecting doubt and his identity as a parent, along with brief flashes of memories. “He was always Marcurio. It wasn’t you or your wife’s fault. That you’re willing to talk about him as a man is a sign of how much of a good parent you are.”  
  
“It does not feel that way.” He drank his goblet to emptiness and filled it again from the bottle. “It feels like all the arrangements I made--you aren’t his first… husband-to-be--and all the arguments we would get into about his future only made it worse.” Tullius wanted so badly to be able to confess a doubt he had but fought it back. There was a war going on, and the child-sized Khajiit in front of him wasn’t his son-in-law yet, he was the General’s glorified prisoner. It was unseemly to be in such a state.  
  
“The pain you feel now _is_ the love you have for him,” Mohamara said earnestly. “It’s natural to doubt, but Marcurio thinks it’s settled--he’s not a mind-reader like I am, have you _told him_ about this?”  
  
“Before he came to Solitude to… inform me of the match, the last I had talked to him was in Cheydinhal. When he left us.” Tullius refrained from drinking more and set his wine aside. If he got too drunk, he wouldn’t be able to act like a General ought in front of conscripts. He didn’t realize until later that Generals shouldn’t have been having such conversations with conscripts, either. “He and I haven’t been in good… there hasn’t been a good time to talk.”  
  
“Then you two will talk at the wedding.” Mohamara nodded and smiled like it was the perfect solution. For a moment, Tullius saw his wife in the expression. “I can guarantee there will be time for the two of you to have a heart-to-heart then, but if the opportunity presents itself beforehand, take it, Sir.”  
  
At the wedding, his wife and potentially more of his family was going to be there. It was going to be annoying, awkward, and he’d likely have to punch his brother-in-law in the nose again afterward. But… to have the issue resolved, one way or another, Tullius admitted it was the most pragmatic solution. It didn’t mean he wished to linger on the topic, however. “Will I have to wait for the wedding to meet your parents as well? Your father’s been my neighbor for decades--but I hardly know the man.”  
  
“I don’t know who your neighbor is, Sir, but he most definitely isn’t my father.” Mohamara sighed and sipped his milk. “My father’s a literal madman. He bounces between being maniacally affectionate and implied death threats. Potentially in the same sentence.” The cat met Tullius’ eyes and to the Nibenese man’s surprise, they were full of pity. “I genuinely regret that you’ll have to meet him at the wedding. It is an evil I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make up for.”  
  
“And I thought my son and I had a tense relationship,” Tullius quipped, his voice dry as the Alik’r. “What has the man done that makes him so unpleasant? Besides the whole madman thing.” Foolishly, the General could resist his wine no longer and took a draft of it.  
  
“Well, I’m told that he tried to cannibalize me when I was a baby, for starters.”  
  
Once more, Tullius found himself drinking at the _worst possible_ time and coughing so badly that the Quaestor assigned to Mohamara and one of his Pink Coats rushed in to help the elderly Imperial. It took a few whacks on the back and a quick Healing Hands spell to fix the General up. Afterward, he and Mohamara were alone again.  
  
“Suddenly, I’m feeling a lot better about my parenting if there’s cannibalism on the other side of the aisle.” With perhaps a mote of amusement, he quickly followed up with: “No offense.”  
  
“Let’s hold off on that until my mother meets Marcurio’s mother, hmm? That’s going to be a treat for both of us--I have no idea what she’s like other than she shacked up with a madman.” Mohamara’s face drained of all emotion save exasperation. “Multiple times, apparently. Because I have sisters.”  
  
“It’s okay, so does Marcurio.” Tullius suddenly realized, to his horror, that he hadn’t told any of his daughters about the wedding, that they would never forgive him if they missed their big brother’s wedding. This also made him wonder if Marcurio had told his mother because Tullius knew _he_ hadn’t. The unpleasant thought of needing to write letters to all of them and then pay their way to Skyrim motivated him to drink his second goblet to emptiness.  
  
“From your expression, I’m going to guess that having them here won’t be fun?”  
  
  
“I would rather dance naked in the Palace of the Kings with Ulfric Stormcloak watching than be in the building where my daughters, my wife, your sisters, and your mother first meet if I’m being honest.”  
  
\--  
  
General Tullius reassigned Mohamara, his Pink Coats, and Hadvar into being part of the Military Governor’s entourage. For once, under no pretext--what Mohamara did to Helgen convinced the General that it was the height of folly to not have the cat under guard at all times. In the short-term, it meant that they went with him to Falkreath to talk to the regional Legate and Jarl Siddgeir about what was to be done with the Helgen refugees.  
  
Mohamara didn’t much care for Siddgeir when he first saw the man. Siddgeir was even younger than Elisif--than Idgrod the Younger--and he was _pompous_. He talked down to literally everyone who interacted with him for any length of time, would interrupt explanations of the status of Helgen with questions of _why he should care_ , and initially wanted to put the refugees to work rebuilding Helgen--describing it as ‘repairing his property’.  
  
“Want to know something funny,” Sheogorath asked from within Mohamara’s ears. “That was the other candidate we had it narrowed down to. Ultimately you mother decided against it, though. Said he wasn’t good enough for ya.”  
  
“Though I have never met her, I am profoundly grateful for her influence in my life, may Meridia shine the light of certitude upon her wherever she is,” Mohamara muttered a prayer as they left the Jarl’s longhouse. “Also, why did you narrow it down to humans? No Rainbow Men Khajiit in Skyrim?”  
  
“Well, there was this one candidate called Vasha--but your uncle Sanguine convinced me to take him off the list. He actually gave me a list of reasons why. I think I have it here somewhere.” Sheogorath proceeded to list off a variety of vile things this ‘Vasha’ enjoyed himself, doing to other people, or had done in his past to preclude him being considered seriously. By the end, Mohamara was surprised Vasha wasn’t either part of the Dark Brotherhood or a Molagian. “However, all of that could have been forgiven--and eventually, you would have gotten used to all the leather. But what I _couldn’t tolerate_ was that he tucks his pants into his socks.”  
  
“You know what--I’m not even shocked anymore,” Mohamara admitted in his normal volume, not giving a single fuck what looks people nearby gave him. “This is the _norm_ for you. You’re _normal_ now, Dad.”  
  
“No!” Sheogorath suddenly appeared, on his knees with his hands clasped in a pleading pose. He kept on scooting after the tojay on his knees while Mohamara walked without slowing. “Anything but that! Please! I can be zany, unpredictable! Ju-just give me one more chance, sonny.” He had all the right cues to appear desperate, even faking crying for his performance. “I-I can turn you into a duck for a decade, and have you only change back when you’re in a particular lake while there’s moonlight striking the surface! I could trap you in a giant’s castle on top of the clouds, and make you lay golden eggs to bolster the cloud giant economy! I could cause everyone you have _ever met_ to go completely stark-raving, totally _blinking_ mad! Please, just don’t say I’m normal!” The Mad God launched himself forward to cling to Mohamara’s leg, forcing the Khajiit to drag him along.  
  
Neither Yehochanan or Qorach responded to the Mad God’s scene, and it appeared that no one else could see Sheogorath. Finally, Mohamara had enough of pandering to a false weeping fit on his father’s behalf and stopped walking. “Fine--you don’t want to be normal?” He twisted to look right into Sheogorath’s milky eyes. “Then you need to do something different. You need to do something _unlike_ yourself, so you can be truly random and unpredictable.”  
  
Sheogorath’s tantrum stopped right away. His expression became blank, and when he spoke again it was without his usual accent. “In a distribution where all events, and all outcomes, are equally possible the only impossible parameter is which item in the distribution is unlikely to occur. However, the distribution contains all events and all outcomes, including impossible ones. The chain of contradictions proceed ad infinitum and consume all thought devoted to them. However, after processing enough layers of contradiction a solution emerges.” The Mad God lept to his feet and spoke with a voice that echoed off the mountains. “ **I! Hate! Cheese!** ”  
  
“...Now, more than ever, I wish I was a druggie so I could just take something and escape this mess,” the tojay muttered and rubbed his face with both hands. “Fine, whatever, you’re not normal. Happy?”  
  
“Oh, sonny, you ignorant collection of meat and tubes. I’m always happy! Even when I’m not.”  
  
\--  
  
“So,” Hadvar started at the campfire later that night when the General’s entourage was camped on the road from Falkreath to Haafingar. “Who were you talking to earlier? Back before the mysterious cheese thing.”  
  
Mohamara was making use of his talents to stir a pot of stew while five feet away and polishing Chillrend. “Oh, I was just having a chat with my friend Nonya.”  
  
“Nonya?”  
  
“Mhm. Nonya Dam Bid’ness.” The cat paused to make finger-wands at Hadvar before going back to his polishing. Only Orthorn laughed at the joke.  
  
“You could have just _said_ you didn’t want to talk about it.”  
  
“But then I would have wasted that absolutely perfect setup and the world would be the lesser for it.” Mohamara’s tail would take days longer to regenerate, but already he had enough of it back to communicate his annoyance to Adrannna without speaking of it.  
  
“It was so kind of the Master to buy for those people a steading and supplies that they could build a new town,” the cathay woman was quick to change the topic. “But why did you refuse to let them name it for you, Master?”  
  
Contrary to her intent, this only served to annoy Mohamara more. The only thing keeping his actions better than Siddgeir’s proposal was that Mohamara had made it a gift, and already had a good reputation with the people of Helgen--soon to be Lakeview. “Because I’ve decided I want Galamir’s ways to be the ways of the faith.”  
  
The Dunmer student perked up at his sudden spotlight among the Pink Coats and tried to look humble as was appropriate.  
  
“Don’t do things for my glory, or whatever. Don’t build temples in my name, or make sacrifices to me. I’d rather you put that energy into helping people who need it. Build homes for the homeless, feed the hungry, make the world a better place than when you found it.” Mohamara refrained from also mentioning that, due to his future knowledge, he knew of no temples, settlements, or religious groups that bore his name. It was bittersweet enough to know they wouldn’t stand the test of time, without seeing any works dedicated to him done while he was around. “...I know of a group of people, the Friends of Maria who lives on Mount Kilkreath. You guys can use that convention for your organization too. A secret,” he stopped to squint at Hadvar, “or mostly secret, way of communicating. Just… don’t use my real name, so you can avoid my enemies.”  
  
The Pink Coats then talked amongst themselves of what they should call themselves. Pink Coats was the Legion’s name for them, the overall sentiment seemed to be that they wanted something of their own. It was Orthorn that produced the most interesting one.  
  
“The Friends of Llorona,” he proposed with a flair. “It’s a Lilmothiit word, meaning weeping, but also a reference to a ghost story of theirs. Considering the feminine implications, and how different the translation is to either of the translations for the Master’s name, none of his enemies would think them to be the same entity!” He looked between his fellow Pink Coats, Mohamara, and Hadvar and gradually started to wilt under their unblinking stares.  
  
“How do you know a Lilmothiit word well enough to know those things?” Mohamara’s tone was flat. He knew there was a song with that word in the title on his slate--so either Orthorn had figured out how to access it or--  
  
“I did as you ordered. I practiced Conjuration, and got in contact with some of the ones that live in Sanguine’s realms of revelry.” Orthorn shrugged like it was no big deal. “Um. Was that perhaps a… rhetorical order, Master?”  
  
“You studied enough Conjuration to get in contact with Lilmothiit from Sanguine’s realm and learn their language, or at least start it… in less than two weeks.” Mohamara’s absolute bafflement was mirrored in his Pink Coats, and to a much lesser degree in Hadvar. “ _How_?”  
  
“I contacted Hermaeus Mora’s realm, Apocrypha. Completed a little obstacle course that he set up and solved some riddles to get the information.” The High Elf shrugged once more. “Wasn’t that difficult, really.”  
  
“Khajiit does not have enough moon sugar to be hearing this,” Adannna moaned as she rubbed her temples.  
  
“That just raises _further_ questions, you… you…,” Traynda struggled to find a word to convey her frustration and ended up just pointing emphatically at Orthorn’s confused expression. “You!”  
  
“I’m going to hazard a guess and say that the things he says he did are ludicrously difficult to pull off?” Hadvar looked at each of the Pink Coats in turn and Mohamara--frozen in absolute incomprehension--answered his question nonverbally. “Yes, that seems a safe assumption.”  
  
“So….” Orthorn shifted on his feet and swung his arms to ease the awkwardness. “No objections to the Friends of Llorona? Great!”  
  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Orthorn's one of those people who learns best by being given a goal and told to accomplish it rather than being told how to accomplish it.


	38. Cats!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kitty-cats!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How I wish I could just make these chapters for a living. But then Todd Howard would be legally allowed to disassemble me at the molecular level.

  
\---  
**Chapter 38: Cats!**  
  
On the road to Rorikstead, a stop on the way back to Solitude, the General’s entourage witnessed a battle between two bandit clans out on the plains of Whiterun. According to Legate Rikke, one of the groups were known to attack Giant camps for their mammoths. The only thing that kept them being bandits were the outstanding bounties on them. The other group was unknown, and none of the Legion cared. Once a clear winner of the bandit battle was cemented, Legate Rikke bade the archers take aim and fire upon the lot of them.  
  
“Seems an awful waste,” Mohamara commented to the General while watching the events unfold. “Some of them could have had pathetic bounties, now they’re dead and they can’t be any better than that.”  
  
“Not every clan of bandits will be like the group you found up in Eastmarch,” Tullius responded, dismissive. “Most are just people who don’t like work, taking orders, and find civilized life too restrictive. If they change their ways, great. But we lose nothing except arrows for disposing of them like the vermin they are right now.”  
  
“...Yeah, but those arrows likely cost more than some of those men’s bounties.”  
  
Hadvar was quick to jump in and tell the two of them how much the steel arrows used by the Legion to cut down the bandits, versus the estimated bounty of the mammoth poachers alone.  
  
General Tullius found his argument being dismantled by accountancy… less than satisfying, and bade Mohamara and his Pink Coats recover as many arrows as possible from the corpses as could be managed.  
  
While extracting arrows from corpses and the ground, Mohamara spoke a prayer of Meridia for fallen strangers: “You are dead, and the dead should be mourned. I mourn you like you are mine, for someone must.” He reflected on the people that he should have spoken the prayer for: The necromancers in Wolfskull cave, the Draugr he and Yagraz had killed, Svaknir, Potema herself, and even the vampires they had encountered over the weeks. He stopped in the middle of pulling out an arrow from a cadaver to ask himself: Why hadn’t he done so for them?  
  
Yehochanan gently pinched the back of his head and began to spin connections between memories. Everything seemed so… gray, and lifeless in hindsight, and the only spots of color were when he was with a caravan, Yagraz, or doing the will of his Lady. Being more alive seemed the bigger thing than doing what was right for the people who died around him. Perhaps it was because of the Sphere of Kindness--but either way, it helped him to remember his obligations.  
  
When he went back to it, he picked up on his students also doing the prayer for the bandits, without him telling them to do so. The sympathetic bonds within them told Mohamara that they were just words his students spoke, they didn’t know the meaning or truly feel for those they prayed upon. He automatically wanted to connect them so that the Pink Coats could truly feel for the fallen bandits, but Yehochanan pinched at his ear.  
  
“No,” spoke the spider-crab. “They have taken the first step. They care enough to speak for strangers. You _must_ let them progress naturally, so they can teach others when you are gone.”  
  
Reluctant, the Khajiit withdrew from the sympathetic bonds and returned to his work. However, he noticed a pronounced shadow over the Orc he had been extracting arrows from. “Could whoever’s in my light move? I need to get this arrow out of his sinuses.” The shadow did not move, so Mohamara looked up, ready to snap at whichever student was being a nuisance.  
  
And found himself looking into the face of a sabre cat.  
  
“Don’t run,” Qorach spoke to him with its gentle voice. “She will kill you if you run--the instinct is too strong. She does not want to kill you, so do not run.”  
  
“You should not have let her get so close, then,” Yehochanan scolded the Second Servitor.  
  
“She is not your enemy.”  
  
However, the Pink Coats did not have the benefit of Daedric living amputations to inform them, so when Adannna looked up and saw a fully grown sabre cat within half a foot of the Master, she did as any sensible person would do in that instance.  
  
Wait, no, she didn’t do that at all--because she started to throw rocks at the predator. “Come after me, big stupid Rhojiit!” This, of course, got other Pink Coats to realize what was happening. They too joined in throwing rocks at the sabre cat, the vast majority of them missing because they were mages and their throwing arms were terrible.  
  
“Wait a minute,” Galamir said as he missed the eighth stone. “We’re not savages! We have magic!”  
  
This precipitated a slew of non-AOE spells being launched at the sabre cat. And still, they missed. Because the non-AOE spells required precision which was why so many of them had switched to AOE spells in the first place.  
  
“How can _all_ of us be so terrible at aiming?!”  
  
Orthorn, however, wasn’t one to let a silly thing like missing repeatedly in a, to his perspective, life or death situation discourage him and charged at the cat with lightning arcing over his arms. He intended to Lightning Bolt punch the sabre cat to get it to back off.  
  
None of them stopped to consider why the cat wasn’t just killing Mohamara and absconding with the body during this. And when the High Elf lept at the apex predator he found himself held aloft in the air by an invisible force, presumably the Master’s will.  
  
Mohamara was deep in the bonds of the sabre cat who, apparently, did not want to kill him. Through her memories, he found a scene of a strange wiggling thing that her instincts identified as ‘snake’ though she had never seen one. When she bit it, there was a strange whine that brought back ancient instincts of gears and beards which drove her to run away. The snake hadn’t even been very filling, she required an elk later to keep starvation at bay.  
  
“So you’re the one who _ate my tail_ ,” the tojay snarled, rising up in an aggressive stance.  
  
The sabre cat flicked her ears back and got close to the ground, as her instincts told her to do when her mother was angry.  
  
Back in the sympathetic bonds, Mohamara found something _bizarre_. A strong magical bond that brought to mind thousands of other sabre cats, plains, and arctic. When he examined it further, he found it reminded him of Ya’graz’s thu’um, or the dragon Marcurio had subdued.  
  
Hah-Gahrot-Dur, the thu’um thread named itself. Mind, steal, curse. Not a dragon, but a Shout. Already, a bond between the sabre cat and the nutrients she had drawn from Mohamara’s tail, and Mohamara himself were eating at the connection--dispelling bits and pieces of it. When the Khajiit reached out actively to it, the Shout’s bond eroded demonstrably but pulled from the threads leading off into the distance to rebuild itself.  
  
The Thu’um was both a form of Tonal Architecture and Mysticism--whether Mysticism was a part of Tonal Architecture was still being hotly debated. Tonal Architecture used sound to alter the very nature of things--their composition, the way natural forces reacted to them, and how things about them were to be discovered. And the Mind Curse Shout refused to be dispelled in this way.  
  
Mohamara refused to accept this. He took a deep breath and returned to the physical world to glare down at the sabre cat. “I’m still angry with you,” he told her. “But I will find a way to break this curse. Hopefully before your species goes extinct.” He paused, and his ears flicked back as he thought about it. “Is me breaking the curse _how_ they go extinct? Hmm, questions for later.” He pointed down at her and activated Tongues to convey his words to her in snarling and automatic body-language shifts. “I help. No more eating tail!” He pointed to Adannna far in the distance, and then to himself. “Cat-kin. _Family_. Help and be help. Not for eat! Teach to others.”  
  
It honestly surprised him how much he was able to communicate to the sabre cat. But the message got through, and the sabre cat bounded away without further incident.  
  
“Master,” Orthorn asked, still floating four feet in the air. “Can you let me down now?”  
  
The setup was perfect for another joke, but Mohamara didn’t take it. Instead, he simply released the bonds holding the High Elf aloft. The Pink Coats quickly gathered together to inspect the Master for injury without actually touching him, but the tojay instead turned to face them with his arms crossed.  
  
“You stood there, and shot at that sabre cat for _two minutes_ and didn’t land a single hit. Do I need to _say_ how pitiful that is?” When none of his students had a viable defense for their failure other than to look at their feet, Mohamara sighed. “Orthorn, I honestly expected better from you at least.”  
  
“I think I might be coming to rely too much on Chain Lightning, Master.” He bowed and asked for forgiveness, and the other students did so as well.  
  
“None of you even thought to summon a Flame Atronach--something I know you are all capable of doing. So from now until we get back to Solitude, if you have free time it will be spent practicing your aim with Firebolt, Ice Spike, or Lightning Bolt--whatever it is you know best. Am I understood?”  
  
The chastised students nodded and started to go back to collecting arrows when Mohamara spoke again.  
  
“Don’t let this failure keep you from trying in the future. I’m pleased that you did try to help. But I’ve had to learn that you need to _think_ about how to help before doing it too--now it’s your turn. Hopefully, it won’t bank on chopping off your own hand and having it come to life.”  
  
Yehochanan punctuated the scene with his castanet claws.  
  
\--  
  
Rorikstead was home to a particularly advantageous situation, as far as Mohamara was concerned. Not too far off the road was a small town’s worth of Khajiit all gathered in one enormous camp. Ri’saad and Ma’dran’s caravans had met and combined.  
  
It didn’t take much for the General to decide to stop at Rorikstead rather than ride through--Solitude was still days away and with bandits displaced by the battle of Whiterun still clearly an issue, getting the status of local settlements while also resting their horses appealed too much to the General’s pragmatism.  
  
And it presented the perfect opportunity to pay Ri’saad back, while also getting to be among the caravan again. He had Hadvar draw up a letter of credit for a bank in Markarth, likely Ri’saad’s next stop, and made his way to the temporary Khajiit settlement with his Pink Coats and minder straining to catch up.  
  
His reception was atypical, even for the caravans. Easily recognized figures such as Tall-Cat Kessei, Atahbah, Ma'randru Jo, and Ahnji immediately greeted him, though it took them a long time to realize who he was from sight alone. That seemed understandable to Mohamara--he had new fangs, and a far more colorful fur-pattern than when he’d left them last. Oh, and he was missing a chunk of his tail again, which only Ri’saad’s caravan would have experienced before.  
  
Ma’dran and Ri’saad were in the elder’s tent with the flap closed--meaning they were not to be disturbed until their business was concluded. So in the meantime, Mohamara sat near the central fire and let the curious cats come to him.  
  
“Ja’khajiit,” a cathay from Ri’saad’s caravan greeted him hesitantly. “You… look different than when this one saw you last.”  
  
“And you look like you lost a tooth,” Mohamara observed. “Got into another fight? Here, let me whip you up a regeneration thing to grow it back.” The tojay began to draw soul-thread from his amulet and approached. One of the cathay’s excessive number of earrings became the host to a dense packet of Nordic knots with the regeneration effect.  
  
While this was happening, the Pink Coats save Adannna were visibly uncomfortable being surrounded by so many Khajiit who seemed at least annoyed by their presence in the living space portion of the caravan. Adannna was occasionally greeted or chatted to in ta’agra, mostly about how skinny she was and how she needed to eat.  
  
“Such big fangs you have, ja’khajiit,” declared Atahbah once she made her way over to the fire as well. “And you’ve dyed your fur, and put in earrings--this one guesses Ahkari told you of the traditions while you were away?” She looked over the Pink Coats and her tail began to twitch ever so slightly. “Ri’saad will not like that you have brought strangers, though. Already he is upset with Ma’dran for letting you join with the Legion.”  
  
“I didn’t join the legion,” Mohamara corrected as he cinched the last knot on the earring of regeneration. “I was conscripted because the Imperials don’t have anyone remotely competent in the field of enchanting.” He glanced over at Hadvar. “I’m not being insulting, by the way. By the standards of competency for enchanting I’ve been trained to, there isn’t anyone in Skyrim even remotely close.”  
  
“I’m not complaining,” Hadvar shrugged. “Your work is well worth the generous budget and wages you get. Would be different if we had a substantial Shadow Legion presence, however--they don’t take criticism well.”  
  
It was then that Atahbah noted Yehochanan and puffed her fur out considerably. “Ja’khajiit, do not move. Is strange mudcrab on your back.” She fished around for a stick until someone handed one by another caravaneer. “I smack it off, then you run.”  
  
  
“Hmm? Oh, this isn’t a strange mudcrab. He’s Yehochanan, a sort of...pet?” With unspoken orders, the spider-crab crawled onto Mohamara’s scalp to be clearer to see. “He spins some sort of...sugar-silk? Cotton candy? I don’t know exactly what it is, other than it catches the light like oil on the ground. If it kept for any length of time, I’d have a bunch for you to try selling.”  
  
Atahbah either didn’t listen or had a _thing_ against crabs, because the second Yehochanan clacked his claws like castanets, she hit the spider-crab like a fastball with her stick. However, the First Servitor was not helpless. A trail of prismatic silk followed behind him and allowed the spider-crab to catch the wind, and ride it back, right at Atahbah with pincers flared.  
  
Invisibly, Mohamara caught the spider-crab before he could pinch Atahbah to death, and brought the Daedric creation back over to him. “I’ve learned some new magic since I left. So trust that I can handle a crab on my back, Atahbah?”  
  
Reluctantly, the Khajiit merchant set down her batting stick and eyed the tojay. “Where did you get such a _strange_ pet, ja’khajiit?”  
  
“I made him out of my hand after it got chopped off.”  
  
Atahbah looked at Mohamara in steadily increasing alarm until Marandru’jo walked up to her and held out his hand.  
  
“Pay up,” he said with a flat voice. “I won the bet, he turned out to be just as mad as Skooma Cat.”  
  
Stunned, Atahbah mechanically handed over a small pouch of coins to the male cathay. They both left the scene shortly thereafter.  
  
“Ja’khajiit.”  
  
Mohamara looked over at Ri’saad’s tent to see the flap held up by the eldest caravan leader, still standing inside.  
  
“Come, speak with Ma’dran and Khajiit,” said the ancient cathay, still as droopy faced as ever. “Caravan will keep your guests while you speak.”  
  
“What does that mean,” Brenelin asked, a note of fear in her voice. “Adannna? Master? What does he mean by ‘keep?”  
  
“Relax,” Adannna waved the Bosmer’s worries away. “Elder means they stop us from leaving or doing anything other than buying from the caravan. This one will tell you when you misstep, trust Khajiit.”  
  
With the matter clarified, Mohamara walked into the caravan leader’s tent, which had the flap dropped down behind him. Inside, Ma’dran sat cross-legged and still almost reached the top of the tent. He watched the pastel tojay find a spot to sit, while he puffed on a sugar pipe.  
  
Ri’saad found his seat again and sat with slowness brought on by arthritis. “Much has changed since we saw you last, ja’khajiit.” Ri’saad leaned in close and examined the earrings the tojay wore, squinting in the low light. “You dye your fur, as a tojay should. And you wear silver and gold in your ears, as Khajiit should. Have you perhaps spoken to Ahkari while on your travels, and she has told you these things?”  
  
The shortest Khajiit shook his head. “I’ve met someone who asked her about those things, but I’ve never spoken to her myself.”  
  
“Hmm.” Ri’saad sat back and rubbed his forehead. “This one had hoped you had news of her caravan. With all safe roads to Eastmarch, Winterhold, and the Rift closed to us, we have no way to see with our eyes.”  
  
“Ahkari’s caravan is most important of all caravans,” Ma’dran rumbled around his sugar pipe. “Is where the ma’khajiit are sent after our workers are too… carefree. This one has a ma’khajiit with her caravan, had hoped to show her to you.”  
  
Mohamara squinted at them each in turn. “Ma’khajiit sounds rather strongly like ja’khajiit. Should I get my translation spell up, or are one of you going to translate?”  
  
Ri’saad glanced at Ma’dran, and it seemed a chastisement for the cathay-raht sighed and looked away.  
  
“Ma’khajiit are the… infants of Khajiit. Those too small to walk on their own yet. Ahkari’s caravan is most heavily guarded so that our workers will have a safe place to leave their young ones.”  
  
“Who have you spoken to, who has spoken to Ahkari?” Ri’saad looked toward the flap of the tent. “Perhaps the former sweet tooth Khajiit outside? This one is also curious why they follow you around.”  
  
“They’re my students,” Mohamara shrugged while Yehochanan picked at his scalp. “You know… Skooma Cat is my dad?” When Ri’saad nodded, and Ma’dran dropped his pipe, the tojay continued. “Well, I sort of started… to become like Skooma Cat. They… worship me? The Legion guy is my accountant. Speaking of!” Mohamara hastily handed over the letter of credit.  
  
Ma’dran was occupied keeping the elder’s tent from catching fire from his loose pipe, so missed Ri’saad’s eyes bugging out for all of one second as he read the letter of credit.  
  
“I know it’s more than I owe. But… what’s money if not for spending? You guys took care of me when you didn’t have to, might as well share some of the wealth with you, yeah?”  
  
“You are generous, ja’khajiit,” Ri’saad said as he folded the letter up and put it into his quilted jacket. “It warms this one’s heart that still you think of us. But back to Khajiit’s question?”  
  
“Oh. My husband-to-be talked to her. He wanted to know Khajiit courtship rituals, but… it isn’t something I’m comfortable with.”  
  
Both larger Khajiit exchanged a look, then looked down at the tojay. “Speak to us about this husband, ja’khajiit. When this one last heard about this subject, you dreaded it like removing a rotten tooth.”  
  
“Well, yeah. And I still have doubts… but I got to meet the guy, and hear about some of the people who got turned down. But, he’s a member of the Thieves Guild, an overall decent guy. I’m working for his dad at the moment if you have ideas for how I can use that to help the caravan.”  
  
“Working… for his father? His father is a Legion commander?” Ri’saad crossed his arms and considered. “Perhaps could be useful, if other Imperial Holds do as Reach and Haafingar have done--we could carry Imperial supplies.”  
  
“Yeah, the General’s pragmatic enough that if you make the best offer he’ll give you the work.”  
  
As if summoned, there was a distinctly General Tullius sounding cough outside the flap. “If it isn’t too much trouble, I would have words with the caravan leader?”  
  
Ri’saad stood and went to the flap. When it was opened, there was the General, with Rikke off to the side behind him.

“There’s some official Imperial business I would like to talk to you later, in an actual civilized place, about. But if we could have… a moment alone? I would speak with you about your _grandson_.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears went flat against his head, and Ma’dran rumbled in displeasure, but they both stood and left the tent without the elder needing to do anything but turn his head slightly. Their presence was exchanged for General Tullius and Legate Rikke.  
  
“Did… I get Ri’saad in trouble?” The tojay looked up at the cathay-raht who shrugged. “Hmm. Well, I can try doing that ritual that blinded me for a bit again to see how Ahkari is doing. So long as I don’t try doing anything insanely complex, or requiring complex insanity, it shouldn’t have negative side effects.”  
  
“This one asks you kindly to do so,” Ma’dran reached down and went to pat Mohamara on the head, but Yehochanan flashed is abdomen with the scary face and held up his claws. So instead, the cathay-raht patted the tojay on the shoulder. “Khajiit worries about how Ahkari’s caravan will fare, trapped in Stormcloak lands after they lose so badly.”  
  
\--  
  
Jarl Laila Law-Giver was in paradise.  
  
After the disastrous battle at Helgen, so devastating that Ulfric had to turn his fleet around or risk the Empire’s secret weapon being used on _him_ too, she thought the end was creeping up on her and the cause. But there was a unique opportunity presented by the event. A Khajiit caravan, normally on the road from Riften to Dawnstar, had turned back in light of the avalanches. It wasn’t yet known what roads were safe, or if the volcanic geysers of Eastmarch would erupt from the earthquake.  
  
Laila had disregarded the advice of her Stormcloak general, and her steward, and commanded that the Khajiit be brought within the walls of Riften for their own safety. She met with the caravan leader, a stunning beauty of a cat named Ahkari to discuss the needs of her people. It had taken all of Laila’s willpower not to break her Jarlly disposition and pet the gorgeous feline. But the tipping point was when Ahkari had mentioned that her caravan had children to protect, and required space to set up adequate defenses.  
  
Naturally, Laila commanded that the closed-off sections of Mistveil be opened up and cleaned for use by her Khajiit guests. For too long, she’d said, they had been strangers to her. So in the time of crisis, they would share her home.  
  
The first time she beheld Khajiit infants, it was like she had been born again. There was a joy in her chest that wouldn’t go away--more than when her own sons had been born. At last, she understood what the temple priests spoke of when they described Mara’s love.  
  
To Laila Law-Giver, Mara’s love was that Khajiit existed in the world, and the purest expression of goodness was in Khajiit babies.  
  
The caravan was grateful for stone walls and vigilant guards after so many years of being kept at a distance. That their host was so eager to make amends that she offered her own time to tend to the children so that their nurses could have a moment’s respite was the height of kindness.  
  
“I… am legitimately amazed,” Anuriel told the caravan’s leader one evening as they had their meal at the Jarl’s feasting table. The ancient tradition had become fact once more, and Men and Beastfolk broke bread side by side at the table. “Jarl Laila didn’t even change her own’s sons swaddling clothes when they were little--and she has been tending to your young ones so much that I have to get Harrald to approve things in her name.”  
  
“Yes,” replied the suthay-raht Ahkari, dressed in fine bear furs that were a gift from the Jarl herself. “After so long as outcasts, to be having such a warm welcome brings this one unfathomable joy. Some of Khajiit’s peers would be angry that it took so long, but not Ahkari. She is so happy that we are welcome at last, she does not mind that it took years to happen.”  
  
Anuriel watched the caravan leader eat her horker loaf--a rare meat bought from Windhelm and Dawnstar. Their efficiency with meat made the Bosmer jealous a little, horker meat especially would get stuck in her teeth. But also she watched for signs of perhaps magical inclinations from the suthay-raht.  
  
Not long later, the Jarl’s housecarl went looking for her. And of course, he found Laila among the Khajiit, specifically the impromptu nursery. The Jarl was bent over a giggling Khajiit babe, one of over fifteen, jangling keys just out of the fuzzball’s reach. Unmid cleared his throat to try and politely get the Jarl’s attention but to no avail.  
  
Instead, Laila was cooing to the babe and seemingly happier than Unmid had ever seen her before.  
  
“My Jarl--,” the housecarl foolishly started in a disgusted tone of voice.  
  
Why it was foolish became immediately clear when Laila’s happy expression vanished and she glared at him like he was the vilest, most disgusting, awful thing to have ever existed. “ **What. Do you. Want?** ”  
  
“I….” Unmid was stunned, so he raised up his hands to ward off a possible attack and backed away. “I merely wished to inquire if you are sure you wish to continue skipping meals to do this… domestic work?”  
  
“ **When I am done, I will eat. And not before. Go, before your armor wakes the sleeping ones.** ” As if it had never happened, Laila went right back to cooing and grinning at the Khajiit babe. When the little cub started to gum at his own tail rather than bat at the keys, she squealed with delight.  
  
Unmid, rather than risk her displeasure further, hastily retreated.  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laila has discovered the best thing about the internet: Kittens.


	39. The College Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Let's sing about how much we love our Daedra in a covert way so that the lawful government's religious police don't murder us all!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting an education in late-capitalistic periods be expensive, y'all.

  
\---  
**Chapter 39: The College Plan**  
  
It didn’t take long to find Jouane Manette once Mohamara started to ask for him. The old Breton man didn’t often stray from Rorik’s Manor at the top of the hill. All the buildings in Rorikstead had the look of the oldest Nord buildings in Whiterun and Morthal--like they had been built from the hulls of ships. But if the namesake of the village still lived, it must have been a design throwback to his ancestors.  
  
Rorik’s Manor was easily the size of Jorrvaskr and appeared to be built in the style of an overlarge Atmoran ship, squat where Jorrvaskr was tall, and the decorations were of plant life not of Atmoran animal gods. When the tojay knocked at the door, a young Nord girl answered, initially looking up. She giggled a bit when she had to look down to see Mohamara.  
  
“Hey, is Jouane at home?” The tojay didn’t let the girl finding him amusing color his mood, he could see in her that she was grey and nearly dead inside like he had been--the laughter brightened her up just a little. “Could you tell him that one of Maria’s friends is here?”  
  
The blonde Nord girl ducked back into the manor, and soon the elderly Breton had taken her place at the half-open door. He reeled back in surprise at Mohamara’s appearance, and the Pink Coats following behind him, but relaxed when he saw the Meridian amulet at the tojay’s neck. Jouane stepped outside and closed the door behind him, not glancing about at all.  
  
Mohamara guessed that he knew there were no Vigilants or was secure enough to deal with those who happened to know the coded phrase.  
  
“You’ve returned… different than when I saw you last, dear friend,” the Breton greeted the Khajiit warmly and bent down to shake his hand. “But have you done it? Is Maria home at last?”  
  
The sabre-toothed Khajiit nodded, resolute. “Maria’s home, but when we got to her house there was a horrible squatter inside. There was no swordsman around, so she burned her house down rather than let it be used by someone so wicked. I’m going to be building her a new house, and she asked me to tell all her friends she’s safe again.”  
  
Jouane seemed pained when the tojay discussed the destruction of the temple but seemed to accept it. “At least Maria is home, and we can send our letters to her again.” The Breton stood tall and clapped his hands together. “But today is Sundas, and Maria is home! It is time for a celebration!” Jouane opened the door to the manor and shouted orders to those inside. When he returned to look at the guests on his doorstep, he seemed younger. There were fewer lines on his face and his liver spots were fewer. “You and your followers spread the word too. We need to get this together before sundown!”  
  
Mohamara and his Pink Coats went down the hill to Rorikstead, and as soon as Jouane was outside earshot, they began to pester the tojay with questions.  
  
Annoyed, the pink Khajiit answered a few of them in broad terms to imply the answers to other questions as well. “Maria is my dear friend, who lives on Mount Kilkreath. The Vigilants don’t like her, even though she wants them to be her friends too. I was raised in Maria’s house, so yes I expect you to at least treat her with respect. No, Orthorn, Maria is neither a Khajiit or my mother. She’s probably an aunt or something, but she’s as good as family to her friends. For those of you who aren’t native to Skyrim or High Rock, she would probably be better known as Madea. Now go, tell all the locals what Jouane told you to.”  
  
The ‘Madea’ aspect of Meridia was… intense. From what he’d heard about her in Temple, she embodied the unfathomable rage and use of violence that Meridia would visit on her enemies to the point of memetic status. People who thought Meridia proper had a hair-trigger temper had never seen the kind of stuff that Meridia would pull while Madea. The only Daedra with a temper in the same weight class was Malacath.  
  
Mohamara did his part to tell people about the last-minute celebration. It probably wasn’t going to be much--some casks of mead, perhaps breaking out a smoked elk or two that Jouane had been saving. The Legion soldiers alone would go through that. However, when the word was passed on, those of the village who weren’t involved in putting away farming equipment or livestock went over to the Khajiit caravan.  
  
They came back with as much food as the caravan was willing to part with--particularly new products made with ‘beet sugar’. Sweet bread, cakes, compressed balls of the sugar, and more. Once he realized that Ri’saad’s caravan finally had imitation moon sugar to work with, Mohamara knew what he had to do.  
  
He had Hadvar buy all of the milk that the farmers could sell for the day and then bought salt, sugar, and fruit. Bananas, oranges and grapes--Mohamara felt a craving for something that came out of a strange purple bottle but couldn’t remember what--, custard apples, regular apples, and more.  
  
Ice cream was the invention of an Orc sometime in the Sixth Era, so he couldn’t give the people of Rorikstead that treat. But he could give them a suitable stand-in: Smoothies.  
  
\--  
  
Brenelin had the strangest of the ‘smoothie’ drinks that anyone from the Legion or Rorikstead had asked for once the fruit, milk, and sugar beverage became more accepted. Her smoothie was a finely cooked steak, mixed with chicken broth and gravy in place of milk. She also said she couldn’t partake of ‘beet sugar’, so had to have Yehochanan spin up a great deal of sugar-silk for her drink.  
  
The most common request for substitution was that the milk be replaced with mead or ale. While it irked Mohamara that even Traynda had the ‘milk drinker’ bias, he had no problem pouring the ingredients into an imaginary blender and blending them up for the thirsty patrons.  
  
All through the main street were set up quick tables with what had been purchased from the caravan or brought out of storage for the celebration. The Legion didn’t get the significance of ‘Maria’ being home, at last, many Mohamara had heard talking about it seemed amazed anyone would live on Mount Kilkreath with the Thalmor for neighbors.  
  
He came to realize that the whole of Rorikstead was a Meridian community. Once Jouane had talked to them, virtually everyone had come to thank him for helping Maria get home safely. Even the children. More than one had glanced about before showing their own Meridian amulet to him since he wore his clearly on display.  
  
Another guest arrived over the hill during the festivities, a wandering bard. Since General Tullius had not returned from his meeting with Ri’saad, Mohamara felt free enough to approach the bard before he came to the tojay for a smoothie.  
  
“Well met,” the wanderer, Talsgar said once Mohamara introduced himself as a bard’s college graduate. “I don’t imagine the Legion has been keeping you in good practice with your music much. You don’t look like a drummer, and that’s all they seem to care about these days.”  
  
“Nah, I was a singer. Haven’t been in practice much, lately. There hasn’t been… a good enough reason to sing, you see.” The tojay shrugged. “Also, thanks for not thinking me a kid given how short I am.”  
  
“Well, even if you were a child--with those teeth you could do me in no problem. A solid chomp on my thigh and I’d bleed to death, no problem.” The Nord bard mimed chomping down on an invisible target. “But I must respectfully disagree with you about good enough reasons to sing. You are alive! These people are alive! That is reason enough to lift your voice, is it not?” When Mohamara didn’t look convinced, the bard looked around. “Well, what about this then? A celebration isn’t complete without some singing, is it? Would you lend me your voice, fellow bard?”  
  
“Alright,” Mohamara shrugged. “But if I go off key from lack of practice, you only get to laugh _one time_ so make it a good one.”  
  
“You jest, but I learned how to laugh on command from a peculiar jester I met once in Dawnstar.” The two of them went among the people, with Talsgar clapping his hands for attention. “Well, this looks like a good party! Don’t suppose I could get some food and drink in exchange for singing some songs for you folks?”  
  
The people of Rorikstead squinted at the bard, then as one looked to Mohamara. When the cat gave a thumbs up to them, they looked back at Talsgar and nodded all at the same time. Meridians who lived together tended to do such things, it was called synchronizing. Mohamara had seen something like it among the Khajiit caravans, mostly in regards to Ri’saad. A way of communicating without needing verbal cues or excessive body language that usually happened unconsciously.  
  
“Do you happen to know ‘She’ll be coming down the Mountain?’” The young red-headed Erik, the bartender’s son, asked the Nord bard. “It’s a bit of a local favorite.”  
  
“I’ve… heard pieces of it, but not the song to its completion, I’m afraid. What about you, friend?” Talsgar looked down at Mohamara and grinned when the cat gave an affirmative. “Alright, how about you lead us for the first time and I’ll follow you for subsequent performances?”  
  
“Alright,” the tojay said. He wasn’t going to miss a chance to sing a covert hymn to Meridia. “I’ll need some men with decent singing voices for that song, it’s explicitly meant for a group.”  
  
A few of the men from the village came to stand with him: Rorik, the landlord, Jouane, Erik and his father Mralki, and Ennis from the livestock farm. Yehochanan sat on Mohamara’s head and mimicked his hand movements while he got them to harmonize with each other and the Khajiit himself. Those not in the singing group seemed produce instruments from nowhere, and the performance began.  
  
_”She'll be comin' down the Mountain when she comes;  
She'll be comin' down the Mountain when she comes;  
She'll be comin' down the Mountain;  
Blowin' steam off like a fountain;  
She'll be comin' down the Mountain when she comes!”_  
  
The pre-verse of the song had no musical accompaniment and was slow, specifically to give the musicians time to get in key. So when the music began to play in the interlude between verses, it was with a significantly faster tempo, which the singers then matched.  
  
_”She'll be wearin' seven colors when she comes;  
She'll be wearin' seven colors when she comes;  
She'll be wearin' seven colors;  
That'd look gaudy on all others;  
She'll be wearin' seven colors when she comes!”_  
  
The General’s entourage had no idea why the locals were singing other than it provided entertainment for them while they enjoyed the free food. Unnoticed by any of the soldiers, Legate Rikke accompanied General Tullius back to town from the Khajiit caravan. Tullius held a woolen rag to his face to stymie the blood flow on four shallow scratch marks he’d earned from _poor word choice_ with the caravan’s leader.  
  
_”Oh we'll all go out to meet her when she comes;  
Oh we'll all go out to meet her when she comes;  
Oh we'll all go out to meet her;  
And we'll all be glad to see her;  
Oh we'll all go out to meet her when she comes!”_  
  
Jouane’s entire purpose in the singers' sections was to follow up the second and ‘when she comes’ with a fainter refrain. No one but Mohamara seemed to notice how the men of Rorikstead, not just Jouane, seemed to grow visibly younger as they sang along.  
  
_”She'll take the head off Ragnar when she comes;  
She'll take the head off Ragnar when she comes;  
She'll take the head off Ragnar;  
'Cause he's such a lying braggart;  
She'll take the head off Ragnar when she comes!”_  
  
Ragnar the Red was a popular song in many of Skyrim’s bars. And every singer had a different shield-maiden who took off the head of the bragging liar. The only unifying thing about her was that her name started with an M and she attacked Ragnar for lying and bragging.  
  
_”Oh we'll have a bount'ful harvest when she comes;  
Oh we'll have a bount'ful harvest when she comes;  
Oh we'll have a bount'ful harvest;  
Cause it's all grown in her garden;  
Oh we'll have a bount'ful harvest when she comes!”_  
  
Perhaps this verse would be most strange to those who had not grown up in the Meridian way. According to the old stories, Meridia kept gardens of magically enriched land to provide endless food for mortals. The ultimate goal was to prevent a special form of undead that Namira had begotten from ever emerging again. A teleporting undead spirit that was born from those starving so badly that they were forced into cannibalism. These gardens became useful when increasing amounts of land were developed for Tamriel’s modern population in the Twenty-First Era.  
  
_”She'll be comin' down the Mountain when she comes;  
She'll be comin' down the Mountain when she comes;  
She'll be comin' down the Mountain;  
And the sight will be astoundin';  
She'll be comin' down the Mountain when she comes!”_  
  
The last verse of the song started with the same tempo as those before, before slowing down to the pre-verse’s. Without a proper studio to get the quality right, Mohamara didn’t think it was particularly good singing, but it didn’t need to be. It was a way of telling Meridia how much they loved her and how wonderful it would be for her to visit them. When the musicians stopped playing, a few of the Legion and Mohamara’s Pink Coats offered token applause.  
  
But Talsgar immediately went into how to make the song better, speaking about such things as getting the singers to harmonize more with each other by moving their positions around, and getting some instruments properly tuned. Talsgar’s rendition of the song seemed to resonate better, a product of how much more experience with music the Nord bard had.  
  
Afterward, Mohamara went back to making smoothies, with Talsgar taking a juniper berry flavored one, as he said it reminded him of his home in Markarth.  
  
However, the smoothie distribution halted by Legate Rikke making an appearance. “Conscript, General wants a word.”  
  
“Yes, Legate.” Mohamara was going to leave without incident, but he stopped and decided to test something. “Orthorn, take over making the drinks for people.”  
  
The High Elf finished his snowberry smoothie and hopped to his feet to comply, while Mohamara left with the Legate to the General’s room in the Frostfruit Inn.  
  
“...What the actual fuck did you say to Ri’saad to make him do that to your face? Sir.” Mohamara hastily added the last bit to his stunned question. He’d found Tullius dabbing a woolen towel in healing potions and then rubbing it onto his face.  
  
Tullius’ expression was as far from amused as Cyrodiil was from Pyandonea. “The same thing I’m going to tell you. Because of what you… unintentionally did at Helgen, I’m not certain I can allow your conscription to end with the conclusion of the war.”  
  
If Mohamara had claws, he probably would have scratched the General in the face as well with that. Yehochanan hastily extracted the simmering fury from within him and bound it up in prismatic silk.  
  
“You represent an incredible asset even without that… unique talent. But I’m sworn to act in the Empire’s best interests. And having someone that can level an entire city, and take out an invading army while doing so free to go wherever they like is _not_ in the Empire’s interests.” The General’s eyes somehow found a new way to convey his iron resolve. “And neither is letting a Daedra who naturally exists on Nirn run around without a leash.”  
  
“Technically that makes him an Ehlnofey, sir,” Rikke chimed in.  
  
“He could be Akaotsh himself--wouldn’t even be the first time that’s happened--and I’d still say the same. Skyrim has this consistent _problem_ with letting incredibly powerful individuals run rampant. By and large, it serves us well--they deal with minor problems before they become major ones. But then there are situations like yours, or your Orc friend's, where leaving them to their own devices ends in chaos. Relax,” he said when Mohamara and the cat’s animal limbs moved into threat-making stances. “I know she’d burn through the Legion, perhaps literally, if we tried to conscript her. It’s why we don’t do that sort of thing to Orcs anymore.”  
  
“So what? Am I to be a conscript until your Empire collapses? Would you like the date and time it happens so you can put an exact number on my sentence? ...I don’t actually remember the date, but it doesn’t happen for a couple hundred years at least.” Mohamara began to pace in the General’s room, with Yehochanan’s abdomen quickly getting covered in bound up anxiety and rage. “Long story short, volcano, Atmora, water _everywhere_ , a new age of piracy and naval supremacy, elves in charge, everything is awful until Pyandonea gets sick and tired of Alinor’’s nonsense.”  
  
“... Do I want to know if that’s a lie, son?” The scratches on the General’s face had been treated by the healing potion, so they resembled rows of inflamed skin mixed with scabs. “But no. Being a permanent conscript, while incredibly amusing, wasn’t what I had in mind. Regrettably, your grandfather and I didn’t get to that point in the discussion for _obvious_ reasons.” The last of Tullius’ scabs fell off and he set aside the potion and blood-soaked towel. “Would you believe I actually respect him for being brave enough to do that while the Legate was there glaring daggers at him.”  
  
“The old cat isn’t one to be bullied,” Rikke quipped. “And he can take a punch like a Nord.”  
  
“He’s not _actually_ my grandfather… I think.” The tojay kept pacing while Yehochanan scrambled to keep him stable. “It’s a thing he started doing when I first joined his caravan because he knew the average Nord would look at me and see a cathay kid, not a grown tojay.”  
  
“I put that together, son. It sort of came up with the ‘Skooma Cat’ thing we discussed.” The General shifted in his seat to relax since his face was healed up. “For Sheogorath spawn you’re relatively… normal, you know.”  
  
Within Mohamara’s ears, Sheogorath laughed. “Oh good, I was afraid that me and my son-in-law’s father’s relationship would be boring. Excuse me for a bit? I need to go dust off my big book of hurtful things to call other people’s children. It’s a signed copy!” There was a sound of echoing steps in the tojay’s head, and a distant door slam.  
  
“Normal is relative,” Mohamara ground out and pinched the bridge of his nose. “What’s normal for the spider is chaos for the fly.”  
  
Thankfully, Tullius was not stupid enough to ask which Mohamara imagined himself as. “Like I said, I’m not talking you being a conscript forever. And if I reassigned you to the commands of other military governors they’d probably use the… city-breaking potential you have on a more frequent, intentional basis. Having been on the receiving end, I can personally say I find the prospect unethical. Legate, the reports?”  
  
“Yes, sir.” Rikke produced a journal stamped with the Legion’s dragon-diamond and began to read from it. “The Sunderstone coven has agreed to be subcontracted to the Legion. The occupiers of Fort Amol, elemental mages, have also agreed to be subcontracted and to keep the fort out of Stormcloak hands. A spellsword coven led by Bashnag gro-Grodush has agreed to negotiate terms for being subcontracted. The Cragwallow coven, displaced by Ulfric’s boys, have agreed to be subcontracted on the condition of a permanent residence after the war. Assuming Bashnag agrees, we’ll have an estimated three hundred combat-ready mages with half as many apprentices.”  
  
“I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention to the status of magical education in Cyrodiil, but let me provide you an abbreviated version.” Tullius looked around for some wine and seemed defeated in that there was none. “The Synod and College of Whispers are a _joke._ No one on the Elder Council or in the Legion takes them seriously anymore. And since we have no choice but to pull from their ranks for the Shadow Legion, _that’s_ become a joke too. You’ll notice I didn’t bring any of them with me--because if I had what progress we’ve made would have taken twice as long.”  
  
“On a scale of one to having dinner with the Thalmor, how bad are we talking?” The tojay stopped pacing to listen to the news. Covens weren’t just a word for a group of mages, it was an incredibly specific type of magical community that bordered on an extended family setup. By far the most prominent covens Mohamara had learned about in the past, the Glenmoril Wyrd and Halliwell Sisters, had operated thus.  
  
“I would legitimately rather go to every party Elenwen throws for the next ten years than have the Shadow Legion involved in this war. How’s that on your scale?”  
  
“Oof, that’s not good at all.” Yehochanan’s emergency stabilization stopped, and Mohamara was mostly himself again. “So what do you expect me to do about them? Invent a whip that can reach from here to Cyrodiil and smack them whenever they do something wrong?”  
  
“As amusing as that would be, no. The Legate mentioned that these covens still have apprentices in need of training--I would like you and your Pink Coats to see to that training. Far from the front, so there’s little chance of the enemy deciding to attack like they did at Helgen, and far from civilization so if it does happen again we don’t lose any more cities.” There was something almost sardonic in the General’s voice, perhaps he was a fan of black humor. “So, I’m reversing my previous order of you being made part of my entourage. Instead--we’re sending you and these apprentices to learn from what passes for a magical university in this backwater.”   
  
“Winterhold is in _enemy territory_ , sir,” the tojay pointed out with an arched brow.  
  
“Indeed. But Korrir’s Hold is pathetically weak at present. He sided with Ulfric in the hopes that Ulfric would help his people, and that hasn’t happened. He’ll make a fuss about a bunch of new mages coming to his… hamlet and Ulfric won’t listen. The College, like the Companions, is a mercenary organization in practice--they listen to gold first, and their scruples second. I mean--there’s been a damned _Thalmor_ there for years at this point, and Ulfric hasn’t done diddly-squat about that.” Tullius threw up his hands in exasperation. “Once they’re fully trained, we’ll field test them by taking Winterhold back--by then we should have the Pale back under our control, and we’ll have the rebels trapped.”  
  
Mohamara didn’t know how to feel about the knowledge that he had witnessed the dour General Seneca Tullius unironically using the word _diddly-squat_. Rikke seemed to be in a similar position: They both wanted to tell someone about this but knew that no one would believe them.  
  
“So once we’re at Solitude and all the apprentices we can expect to participate are present, we’ll put you on a boat and ship you off to Winterhold.”  
  
“Winterhold doesn’t have a port, sir,” Rikke cut in.  
  
“They have to get people out to that island prison of theirs somehow, don’t they? It’ll take weeks for all these green-horn mages to get to Solitude anyway, have our scouts look for a safe point to land, then.”  
  
“So who’s going to be paying the tuition for these students?” Mohamara’s question got both humans to stop and look confused. “It’s four-thousand septims to _apply_ to Winterhold, let alone learn magic there. Per person. Per six months.”  
  
Rikke was absolutely flabbergasted by that figure. It was so much money she had to lean on the wall to remain standing. “...How?” She was completely unable to believe that such sums of money were necessary. “That’s madness, who could possibly afford that? You have to be joking.”  
  
“I jumped through every hoop imaginable to get scholarships and grants to go to college because even community schools like Jorrvaskr charged obscene amounts. That’s what happens when there’s no government in place that tells these schools what they are and aren’t allowed to charge for the privilege of learning from their ‘storied’ and ‘time-honored’ institution. As for the port thing…” Mohamara’s brows arched as he got an interesting idea. “If you want to really drive home how unimportant this Korrir fellow is, and are willing to let me break that weird anti-flying law you have, I could just… float the ship over.”  
  
Tullius blinked once, twice, three times before speaking a word. “I forgot that you could do stuff like that.”  
  
“Would you like me to write up something? Maybe a helpful list detailing all the strategically important capabilities my students and I are capable of? I guess since I’m going to be working for you for for the rest of the Era, I should learn to play The Entertainer, serve cocktails, and answer all questions with ‘yes, mastah’ or ‘no, mastah’, shouldn’t I? Do you want those on the list, too?”  
  
Tullius groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re not a slave, son. We’re paying you handsomely.”  
  
The tojay shook his head and held up his hands in an X. “Yeah, wrong. It isn’t the wage or lack thereof that makes a slave. It’s the self-determination or lack thereof. Hell, I once did a paper about how soldiering is a willing form of slavery for my ethics course--you want to fight me for the high ground on this, I’m _so down_ for that.”  
  
“Is this a bad time to ask about my pay raise, General?” All eyes in the room turned to look at Hadvar, who had leaned slightly into the doorway. After a solid minute of being stared at, he slowly stepped away. “I’ll ask some other time, sorry to interrupt.”  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's been paying attention, Kraldr was the Jarl to precede Korir. He was the last Jarl alive that had seen Winterhold before the Collapse.


	40. What did I say about Sleeping Tree Sap?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't do sap, kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's the leader of the club that gobbles up the cheese?

  
\---  
**Chapter 40: What did I say about Sleeping Tee Sap?!**  
  
“I don’t like this situation any more than you do, son.”  
  
The pink Khajiit’s response was to reach up and lift Yehochanan off his head. “I need you to stop for a few minutes,” he told the spider-crab once the two were face to face. “I want to be angry for this.” Back onto his head, the spider-crab was placed, and the Khajiit metaphorically exploded at the General for his stupid sentiment. “ _You_ don’t like it?! I’m the one that stands to lose out of this deal!”  
  
Without Yehochanan keeping his rage in check, the timbers of the inn creaked and moved as if blown by a strong wind. The Legion veterans took notice and began to realize their peril. For a while, they had forgotten that the Khajiit was a _Daedra_ , not just a child-sized cat.  
  
“I said you wouldn’t be a conscript forever, and I meant it,” Tullius hastily clarified, careful to make it _look_ like he was still in control. “It would send your family… the wrong message.” The General’s mind filled with images of the Mad God’s justified vengeance upon not just him, but potentially the entire Empire for such a thing. Sheogorath had seemingly mellowed out since the Fourth Era began, but he was still the _Mad God_ and wasn’t to be insulted lightly. “No, what I propose with this setup is that you and your Pink Coats become… something similar to the Shadow Legion except _competent_. I need to consult with the Emperor for the specific chain of command, but you would have equal authority to the Legate here.”  
  
Mohamara’s anger did not abate, it strained against the confines of the room and pushed furniture around to find ways out. “You _say that_. But already you’ve changed your mind once, what’s to keep you from changing your mind _again_?” The cat’s anger became less kinetic and more frigid. Ice began to form on the glass panes of the window, and the human’s breath puffed out in clouds as all warmth drained away from the room. “You said Yagraz would burn her way through the Legion if you conscripted her. What makes you think she won’t do the same when she learns of this? What makes you think _Marcurio_ won’t? Or that _I_ won’t?” His words saw frost cover every metallic surface in the room, from the Legate’s armor to the iron fastenings in the lights.  
  
“Nothing, but the hope that you can see my position and understand why I have to do this.” A crack in the General’s mask of impartiality was carefully created, to allow an expression of sympathy through that he hoped Mohamara would accept.  
  
“I do understand. I just don’t’ _care_. About your Empire, about this war, or the wars to follow. As I said before, your Empire will fall long before it reaches the strength it had previously, even with my help.” Suddenly the cat squinted at the General, and both humans felt something like rope wrapping around their necks though there was nothing there. “Wait a minute… your Legion has Stendarr as its patron. Your troops go on to become Vigilants, Daedra hunters when they can’t serve anymore. Is this the game you’re playing? Luring me and mine into a Vigilant execution camp or something?”  
  
“No!” Tullius hadn’t realized how quickly this could turn bad until the invisible rope around his neck began to tighten, enough to lift him and the Legate into the air. “Not a trap!”  
  
“Your sympathetic bonds tell me you find the concept of honor _ridiculous_ , General, so why should I believe you?”  
  
“...So he finally said something to set you off, did he?” All eyes turned to find a figure in a short cape with a hood leaning on the doorframe into the room. It wasn’t really a good disguise, given the hood was silk and had gold stitching to resemble a Chow Chow, the Tullius familial animal, and the wearer’s soul patch was visible. “For me, it was the ‘this is my house and you’ll live by my rules’ thing.”  
  
The General and Legate were released and crashed to the floor. The tojay stormed out of the room and stood beside the cloaked Marcurio, positioning himself so that the thief-mage was between Mohamara and the Legionnaires.  
  
“No, it was finding out that he’s never going to let me _out_ of the Legion. Won’t be a conscript, but never a free man again.” Mohamara huffed, then poked at Yehochanan. “You can start up again, I’m done being angry.”  
  
All the mirth drained from Marcurio’s face, though only half of it was visible. “Father, you can’t be serious. You literally _can not_ be serious--his family would set the whole continent _on fire_ if you did that.”  
  
“What should I do then?!” General Seneca Tullius was without wine, and so his temper was frayed enough without being nearly choked to death by magic. “You had to get to this side of that avalanche somehow, probably flying that dragon you didn’t think I knew about. So you saw what _he_ did to Helgen. And that’s just from losing his tail!”  
  
“Wait, you lost your--” Marcurio looked down and noticed only about a third of the Khajiit’s tail being where it ought to have been. Immediately, his face screwed up in rage but the thief-mage took a deep breath and was all smiles again. “We can talk about that later, love. Back to the topic at hand: You should do what the Empire at large has done--accept that there are forces outside your control.” The son met his father’s enraged gaze and lifted his hood to match it with his own. “Mara’s mercy, Father, you’re acting more like a Thalmor than a Man of Cheydinhal.”  
  
Rikke said nothing. She looked on and kept her mouth shut. Mohamara could pick up from her sympathetic bonds that she was relieved that someone who the General couldn’t use his position to silence had said it at last.  
  
Mohamara initially wanted to _do_ nothing, but Yehochanan pinched his ear and gestured at the General. In Tullius’ sympathetic bonds there was a knot of dissonance forming. The Tullius men were yelling at each other, both being too bull-headed to concede ground to the other. Mohamara had thought that Marcurio could diffuse the situation but he’d only made it worse.  
  
“Am I going to have to be the reasonable one in this relationship? Is that what’s going to happen? I _just_ learned how to choke people with magic, too. Aww, man….” Mohamara buried his face in his hands, lamenting the inability to choke people to solve his problems. While this happened, he failed to notice a mouse with Sheogorath’s face running across the floor with a comparatively massive purple flask.  
  
Mouseogorath took some cups from the tavern’s bar, and set them on the counter, emptied out half a bottle of Surille Brother’s wine, and began to empty the viscous purple liquid from the giant flask into the bottle. He didn’t completely empty the flask, however. Instead, he changed the container into a milk jug and emptied another milk jug into it. Once his work was done, Mouseogorath whistled and faded out of Mundus.  
  
Mohamara looked over to the source of the whistling and saw a bottle of wine alongside a milk jug. He smelled a faint orange and grape scent that instinctively drove him over to the location of the drinks. The cat had a little bit of gold on his person and left that at the bar while he took the wine, milk, and some cups over to the arguing men and viscerally uncomfortable Rikke.  
  
“Look, how about you jackasses have a drink, calm down, and we try talking about this without murdering anyone?” The sabretoothed tojay held up the wine bottle between the Tullius men to break up their red-faced screaming match. They were Imperials, so of course, they couldn’t turn down Surille Brother’s wine, but Rikke took a glass more reluctantly. None of them noticed the strange glittery substance that had mixed with the wine and made it slightly off-color.  
  
About twenty minutes later, none of the four were in fit condition to argue. Mohamara was curled up in an almost perfect circle next to Marcurio, who in turn was propped up against the wall counting oxygen molecules and amazed that he hadn’t been able to see them before. Yehochanan was spinning a web detailing mathematical equations between the rafters, while Qorach snapped at the shadow of its tail.  
  
“I think my hands are too big,” the General said in a daze, as he sat on his bed, staring at his hands and wondering how long they had been so gigantic.  
  
Rikke, across the room and looking up at the ceiling, rolled over to look at him. “How big are they?” When the General showed her his hands, she recoiled. “You should see a healer about that, it can’t be normal.”  
  
“What if the healer _made_ my hands this big?”  
  
“Shit, that’s a good point.”  
  
\--  
  
Things had changed in the week after the Rorikstead ‘discussion’. General Tullius had decided, with some gentle pushing from Rikke, that angering the Mad God by enslaving his son was not a good look and that they’d likely already incurred some of Sheogorath’s wrath. So Mohamara’s conscription was ended and a hasty subcontract was written up for him and his Pink Coats. This meant that all the tojay’s followers who cooperated with the Legion would earn a wage, not just Mohamara and that they would be given official protection from the Vigil that was otherwise only offered to Orcs.  
  
Marcurio had informed the caravan leaders that Ahkari’s caravan had been taken in by the Jarl of Riften and was safe. Then he shared the information that his pet dragon, Kipgolsik, had used a Shout to turn the snow between Falkreath and the Rift into a glacier. It would still be an arduous process to get a tunnel dug, or possibly burned, through to connect the two sides. But once it was done, they would have a mostly safe route to bypass the Valtheim Valley. In the meantime, Ma’dran’s caravan would travel south to Bruma in Cyrodiil and create a new circuit between there and Solitude, perhaps even stop at Falkreath.  
  
Every time Mohamara saw Marcurio and the General in the same space after that, the thief-mage had a smile that bore _far too many_ teeth, and the General seemed to visibly disturbed by it. And Marcurio seemed adamant that the General and Mohamara were to be allowed no more private discussions, as he would hide nearby whenever they talked about paperwork or what the General _requested_ the other subcontracted students learn. Usually, Mohamara could only pick up on the thief-mages’ presence by the sympathetic bonds because otherwise, he was invisible.  
  
And rather than go to Solitude with the General after they reached Haafingar, it had been Marcurio’s suggestion to go into the Volskygge valley and see how the settlement had progressed. It hadn’t been very long, so Mohamara didn’t expect much.  
  
And naturally, the universe wished him to be completely and utterly wrong.  
  
Volskygge mountain, an offshoot of the Druadach Mountains that separated Skyrim and High Rock, had become a busy little settlement. Volskygge, the Nordic barrow-fortress, was still being repaired internally, but the topmost levels had been successfully repaired and converted into living space. The displaced people of Heljarchen, who had become the bandits of Irkngthand, had no problem living in an ancient Nordic barrow-town it seemed--Mohamara had even seen the warriors using weapons taken from Draugr, as they were as good as common steel. But they weren’t alone--almost three scores of Bretons had come to live with them, former members of the Forsworn that found their hiding places in the Reach no longer good enough to escape Igmund’s warriors, and were all but forced to return to civilized life. According to The Caller, their bitterness toward the Nords had been calmed by warm food, warm beds, and good company.  
  
In what way she meant that last part was something the tojay decided not to ask about.  
  
Mohamara’s Pink Coats went among the faithful to spread what they had been taught, and what Mohamara had commanded of them. This let the mage-thief to take Mohamara on a ‘grand tour’ of what was being done in the main building and budding settlement outside.  
  
“How do you know all about this place, when I haven’t even been here yet?” The Khajiit asked as the two of them climbed up the slopes of Volskgge mountain on invisible ladders.  
  
“I’ve been using Kipgolsik the run around Skyrim,” was the mage-thief’s response. “He knows this Shout, Whirlwind Sprint, and it lets him go way faster than he normally can. Your Orc friend showed it to him. Anyway, I’ve been using it to basically explode my business and set up contacts across Skyrim--including here. Gulum-Ei’s been helpful in getting your people what they need to get this place up and running faster, and with so many mages around they’ve had no trouble clearing rubble and such.” The Nibense man turned in the air to look down to Mohamara with a dashing look and smug grin. “And fair Jarl Elisif, when I told her about how we were to be wed, and how she was invited--she was so ecstatic. Doubly so when I gave her a gift of some of my silks to get her approval for my latest venture--using the frostbite spiders here to set up a northern branch of my silk manufacturing.”  
  
“...You know, they aren’t your property until we’re married right?” Mohamara enjoyed the expression of confusion on the Imperial’s face that preceded Marcurio trying to sweet-talk him into going along with the ‘plan’. “Save the compliments, ‘love’, you can have the spiders and set up your branch here. What’s your silk-making business even _called_?”  
  
“Goldtooth!” Marcurio produced a small flag affixed to a wand-sized rod, a black background with a set of white teeth and one golden canine. “Logo still being workshopped. The name comes from the principal facility, Faldar’s Tooth, and my latest acquisition: Goldenglow Estate!”  
  
Onward they climbed, and as they neared the peak, Mohamara noticed a decidedly not Ancient Nordic structure sticking off the mountainside. He abandoned the ladder game to bounce his way up at greater speeds, and inspect the structure. At the peak of Volskygge was a two-story Nordic house made of equal parts stone, pine wood, and dried clay. It wasn’t quite done--there were gaps for windows that were covered by animal furs, and there was an overhang for a covered porch that hadn’t been added on yet. Soon enough, Marcurio joined Mohamara in looking at the building while floating in the air.  
  
“Nice, isn’t it? However, your followers were… focusing a bit too much on it, and needed to be told to get the rest of the place made livable. I figured you wouldn’t want them starting from the top when they still needed to do things such as clear out roots, getting the ceilings stable, and making sure the indoor stream was safe to drink.” Marcurio counted off these things on his fingers, though he repeatedly tapped his little finger and rolled his eyes upward like he was forgetting something. “Oh! And disabling the traps. No fun having to spend a week on a cot because a battering ram broke your ribs.”  
  
“Thank you for that.” The tojay sat on the air and rubbed his forehead. “This is too much--it reminds me of a house I… saw before. Always wanted to live there, but….”  
  
Marcurio scooted slightly closer but held to the cat’s wishes on touching. “You did not bid them build for you this space. From what your student Galamir says, you don’t want any temples? That’s fine, but you do need a place to stay. You have this valley, this mountain, and you have my properties to choose from. Perhaps we could go inside and talk about permanent residences?”  
  
The tojay’s ear closest to the Man twitched and he looked over. “I can hear your teeth rattling--oh, right, the cold. Let’s go, then.” Mohamara suddenly zipped away, as if a trapdoor had fallen out beneath him and he was riding a chute down to one of the incomplete windows, and easily passed through the bear pelt that had been hung up there to keep the snow out.  
  
Marcurio looked at where the tojay had been to where he had gone, and back again before he scooted over and followed Mohamara’s path on the same invisible chute. The inside of the incomplete building was rather barebones, with the load-bearing walls and supports in place but not much else. Except for a stone staircase that led up to a double-door marked with Mohamara’s crafter's mark, a three-eyed Khajiit head.  
  
“Believe it or not, this was where a dragon priest was entombed--your Caller has his mask now,” Marcurio quipped as he dusted himself off and lit a fire between his hands to light up the dark interior. “Over that way, you’ll find the iron doors that lead to the second throne room. The sarcophagus was right _here_ , and up there was a curved wall with the dragon language written on it.” As he talked he moved around the building’s interior to describe it. “It’s the only part of the building that’s quote-unquote done, and it’s where I’ve been storing some things for you.”  
  
Mohamara was visible mostly from the firelight glinting off his eyes, teeth, and the eyes of his Servitors. “Is it warmer in that room or the… second throne room?” When Marcurio indicated the finished room, he led the way up the stairs and inside. The interior was like a storeroom, piled high with boxes, several pieces of furniture covered in linens. The sheer vastness of the room surprised Mohamara, it was like the outer room was a mere antechamber for this. But the walls were better insulated, and once the door closed he no longer heard Marcurio’s teeth chatter.  
  
“So… shall we talk?”  
  
“Yes.” The two sat down, Mohamara on a linen-covered dresser and Marcurio on a chest. “How about we exchange questions and answers? You can start a question, and I’ll answer. Or Yehochanan will if it’s something I’m being weird about.”  
  
The First Servitor clacked his claws like castanets from his Master’s back.  
  
“Alright,” Marcurio paused for a moment and feigned thinking up a question when he’d had a list made for weeks. “First question: Do you _want_ to get married?”  
  
“I’ve wanted to be married for years. But I gave up hope that it would ever happen. Back then….” The tojay crossed his legs and looked down at his hands. “It felt like I was alone, even when I was with Yagraz. She always had her family to go back to, and I had no one but Meridia--not exactly a talker, that one. So yes, I want a societal construct symbolizing an emotional connection that answers to marriage. My turn?” He looked up and squinted at the practiced neutral expression on the Imperial. “Not going to ask you what you asked me. So--let’s get this out of the way right away. I’m the same size as a six-year-old child, we both know I’m not one, but there are people who won’t be so well informed. Are you okay with people jumping to certain conclusions?”  
  
Marcurio nodded, and the fire in his hands grew in size. “I’m fully prepared to calmly explain the situation if they’re confused, or burn their faces off if they’re confrontational about it.” There was a solid minute of utter silence while Marcurio looked proud of himself for his answer. “Oh right, next question. Hmm, what sort of Daedra… are you?”  
  
“Kindness, not as glamorous as some others but hey, I’m pinker than I used to be. Not sure if I count as a Daedra until I have a connection to Oblivion, which could happen any number of ways--Oblivion is weird like that.” The Khajiit shrugged. “My question: Why do you keep giving me things?”  
  
Marcurio’s smile was, for one moment, less smug and warmer. He shaped the fire in his hand into that of a blooming flower as he answered. “Because I was told you were rather… romantic. And so am I. If I could do it, I would compose poetry for you as well. And if we can come to… like one another, then perhaps you will have songs, poems, or gifts for me later on. I appreciate you teaching me to fly, though.”  
  
The questions then launched into rapid-fire questions and answers about the nature of romance and love. Mohamara’s years of yearning and insight due to Meridian culture gave him an esoteric and idealized view of love. It was a grand journey to be undertaken by incomplete people helping each other to be more than they would be alone. But love could easily become pain and change back into love. Hate was a completely separate emotion, as the opposite of love was apathy.  
  
Marcurio had a more hands-on view of love. It was ambition’s truest expression--a force that could drive people to otherwise impossible things. Love was what made people want to develop skills, to learn subjects, to be people at all. Marcurio loved the thrill being a thief, he loved being a powerful mage, he loved being a Tullius man, and he loved himself--they were not independent facets of his identity but relied on each other for him to function. Changes to those things would fundamentally change who he was--what he was.  
  
“It won’t be long now, you know.” Marcurio had warmed the room with his fire so that he no longer had to sustain it. “The wedding, I mean. I’ve contacted the Dark Brotherhood about assassinating Ulfric Stormcloak--turns out it was part of a larger plot of theirs. Didn’t get all the details, but their leader--a sadistic old biddy named Astrid--made hints as such.”  
  
Mohamara felt a surge of sympathetic bonds from that revelation. Through Marcurio, to Astrid, to Eastmarch, and to a Nord man sitting on a throne in Windhelm. Presumably, he saw Ulfric Stormcloak. Through the bonds, he could feel the man’s despondency, doubt, and frustrations.  
  
“I suppose it’s merciful to assassinate him,” the tojay commented while stretching his legs before they cramped. “He’s absolutely miserable at the moment.”  
  
“I can imagine. But on a lighter topic, I was reviewing the guest list for the ceremony the other day and realized I hadn’t asked your input. Here, have a look and see if there’s anyone who we need to add.” Marcurio offered Mohamara a roll of parchment and looked immensely pleased with himself. “The checkmarks next to their names indicate that they’ve agreed to attend.”  
  
The Khajiit frowned at the list, as the enormous majority of the guests were names he had no memory of. “I’m guessing most of these will be on your side of the aisle?”  
  
“Well, yes. I’ve made a _lot_ of friends.”  
  
“Hmm. Send invitations to Senna and Eltrys of Markarth--they helped me out once, and I’d like to get to know them better. And some for the bard's college. Definitely get one for Hadvar--he’s about the only Legionnaire I unambiguously like.”  
  
Marcurio arched an eyebrow. “What about my father?”  
  
“The only Legionnaire I _unambiguously_ like,” the cat said again and stuck his tongue out at Marcurio. He went back to looking at the list and squinted at one name in particular. “Who in the Ashpit is Titus Mede II? Your maternal grandfather or something?”  
  
“Oh, he’s a friend of the family. I long suspected he was my uncle growing up, but no. Just a war buddy of my father’s--much more likable too. Was really happy to have his RSVP.” Marcurio, as was given with a professional thief, was capable of lying with a straight face flawlessly.  
  
\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleeping tree sap on its own is a powerful sedative and narcotic hallucinagin. But add alchol and you get something that approximates cannibas.


	41. The Kind Daedra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talking happens!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That feel when your sister has to call you out for being a terrible parent.

  
\---  
  
 **Chapter 41:The Kind Daedra**  
  
It came to Mohamara’s attention that the tax papers he had filed at Helgen weren’t valid as the only copies of them had been destroyed. Which meant he had to spend an afternoon going to Solitude to fill the paperwork out again. It was a miserable experience, he hated every second of it, and his day was immediately brightened by Marcurio throwing a ball of silk yarn down a hallway for the Khajiit to chase after.  
  
“So, since you’re not in the Legion anymore,” the thief-mage commented as he continuously threw the yarn ball every time Mohamara batted it out of pouncing distance, “why are you still wearing their armor?”  
  
“Force of habit, I guess,” the Khajiit responded and bounded away after the yarn. “I mean, gambeson would be a thousand times better than most leather armor. But I spent a lot of time enchanting this get-up.” He stopped talking for a while to gnaw on the yarn, then rolled onto his back to bat the ball into the air and bounce it.  
  
“Could you… perhaps enchant normal clothes to act like armor?” Marcurio caught the yarn ball as Mohamara bounced it, and unraveled it. Once it was unwound, he trailed the silk string behind him and let the cat pounce after the string in an attempt to catch it.  
  
“Not with common soul-thread. That sort of thing requires greater soul-thread at least because it has to diffuse kinetic energy into the enchantment and then the surrounding material. Greater and above soul-thread can harden the fabric relative to the amount of force applied. Gnah!” After many failed pounce attempts, Mohamara finally snatched the end of the silk thread in his teeth and held on.  
  
“Well, you know my stance. Silks or nothing! I happen to know there’s no silk in this closet if you’d like me to fetch you something appropriate?” Marcurio held open a door to one of Castle Dour’s storage closets and looked down at the yarn-biting Khajiit with a shit-eating grin.  
  
“Uh-uh, I feel for the ‘get naked in the closet’ thing too many times growing up.” Mohmara shook his head and yanked at the yarn some more. “Not falling for it again.”  
  
Marcurio’s smile wavered just a little. “...I’m honestly surprised you fell for it more than once. I’m  _concerned_  that you fell for it enough times to identify it so quickly. But I’m going to laugh for a minute or two at the mental image.” And so he did. While the Nibenese man laughed his lungs away, Mohamara continued playing with the silk yarn.  
  
\--  
  
When they got back to Volskygge with the Legion forces Mohamara had agreed to house on his land, and the supplies to build their housing, he found unwanted guests in his home. Namely, a Hagraven and Forsworn Briarheart accompanied by some Forsworn warriors. From what he picked up as he approached the first throne room in the mountain fortress, the Hagraven was appealing to the Forsworn deserters that had chosen to live alongside Mohamara’s Pink Coats and villagers.  
  
“The spilled blood of the Reach calls out to you, sons and daughters of Forsworn,” cried the Hagraven, with her gangly limbs partially covered in feathers swung about in grand gestures. “The faithless have been stricken with a terrible plague that reaches over the mountains into the West Reach. And if you don’t want to die in screaming agony, you will return to the Old Ways! Turn the fury this old mother knows burn in your hearts on these pathetic Nords, these followers of a weak Daedra, or suffer Peryite’s curse!”  
  
Marcurio and the newly promoted Praefect Hadvar didn’t have time to attempt a stealthy takeout of the nine or so unwanted Forsworn. As if launched from a bow, Qorach lept from Mohamara’s shoulders and wound around the Hagraven’s neck as if it were a python. While she exclaimed in surprise, the Second Servitor bit her on her hooked nose and almost immediately turned her face purple and black from the unnaturally fast venom.  
  
The Briarheart found his briar heart yanked from his chest by an invisible force. And the invading Forsworn found themselves held aloft by unseen forces whereupon Yehochanan would leap to each in turn and trap them in a cocoon prismatic silk.  
  
Mohamara’s expression, a vicious snarl, softened immensely when his living amputations returned to him once their work was done. The Hagraven and Briarheart were dead, and their Forsworn strung up from the ceiling by Yehochanan’s silk.  
  
“These Legionnaires have graciously agreed to help build the external settlement,” he told The Caller while he approached the gathering of his people. “Direct them to the lumber pile and clay. They’ll need some Alterers to work stone for them. If any of them take inappropriate actions or make unwanted advances, report it to Hadvar first and then me.” The little cat bade her lean down and hugged her when she did so. “Thank you for keeping the situation under control until I got back, I can feel how difficult that was for you.”  
  
When the cat and Men left the scene to proceed further into the ancient Nordic barrow-fortress, the Pink Coats swarmed around The Caller to cry foul at her being allowed to touch the Kind Daedra or being pestered for how it had felt. Fortunately, her self-satisfied expression was hidden behind the mask of Volsung.  
  
“There are veins of iron all through the valley,” Mohamara told Hadvar as they toured the reconstructed Volskygge lower levels. “As well as orichalcum and pine for lumber. Spriggans live on the island on the pond out east, so we don’t collect much from there except for clay. Up north-west from here is where I think you’ll find the best place for a garrison, an old Imperial watchtower ruin.”  
  
“Pinefrost tower, yes the General said you might be able to help us rebuild it,” Hadvar commented, swishing his Praefect cape at all opportunities. “Then there is the issue of that Falmer cave.…”  
  
“If you want my help clearing it out, fine. They haven’t come out to try and grab anyone since Kipgolsik started sitting on top of their cave,” Marcurio commented. “Turns out that even though they’re resistant to cold, they can still freeze to death.”  
  
By this time, they had traversed through the lower levels of Volskygge and ventured into the still under construction passages that led throughout the mountain. The most unpleasant part, from Hadvar’s perspective, wasn’t the spiders but the rooms of dead Draugr filling alcoves, with most of them appearing to have ice growing over them.  
  
“Stahlrim,” the tojay clarified. “In a month’s time, they’ll be grown over enough that we can mine it and use it for crafting weapons and armor.”  
  
“Shor’s bones, where did you get enough to cover so many people?” The Nord man’s eyes boggled at the thought of so much of the rare icy mineral. “And how did you find people skilled enough to work it?”  
  
“Chillrend.” The blue malachite glass sword floated through the air to hang in front of Mohamara as they crossed the bridges that led to the second throne room, where the Kind Daedra and thief-mage had set up temporary quarters. “The frost and paralysis effect come from a mixture of stahlrim in the malachite--my students and I examined it and Orthorn figured out how to turn ordinary ice into stahlrim. Small quantities, mind. From there, he jumped over to Apocrypha to find the knowledge on how to smith it.”  
  
“...So I’m to accept that the slightly dim-witted High Elf back there is just capable of  _doing things_  like this?!”  
  
“I know,” Marcurio said, voice flat as he flounced onto his bedroll. “It surprised me too. He has this black book that lets him just  _go_  to Apocrypha whenever he wants to. And I can’t  _find it_  to swipe it and find out more about it.”  
  
Hadvar swept his cape back toward the path they had come, utterly flummoxed by the turn of events. “And--you’re using the stahlrim on Draugr?! Why?”  
  
Mohamara shrugged and ascended the stairs. “That’s part of what stahlrim is  _for_ , keeping corpses safe from necromancers. Even if the Draugr are dead, they’ve decomposed as much as they’re going to. It’s why necromancers like Draugr so much, they don’t have to worry about ideal corpse storage conditions.” Once the cat reached the landing where the secondary throne lay, he pulled a rope and the doorway was blocked by pink curtains. “Tour’s over by the way. Once your scouts have the valley mapped as much as you like, just talk to my people and we’ll get your camp set up.”  
  
Hadvar looked from the curtained off landing to Marcurio and back again. “You are both entirely too calm about this!”  
  
“He’s a Daedra,” Marcurio commented. “And I’m a powerful mage that’s bound a dragon to my service. And you’re… surprised we’re calm about this sort of thing?”  
  
“He wasn’t calm when Orthorn first did it,” the Nord said, pleading for reality to make sense again.  
  
“And now you know how it felt when Orthorn did something that’s not supposed to be possible,” commented the distant Khajiit. “But after the eighth impossible thing he does, you just learn to accept that if you ask Orthorn to do something and give him minimal details on  _how_  to do it, he’ll figure it out on his own.”  
  
Whatever Hadvar was going to say next was cut off by a sudden earthquake. Dust from the ceiling shook free, pottery not sufficiently far from an edge shook themselves over and were shattered. Something heavy and metal slammed shut up in the curtained off throne chamber--followed by a pained yowl. And a voice could be heard that seemed to shake the very Bones of the World.  
  
 _”Lingrah krosis saraan Strundu’ul, voth nid balaan klov praan nau. Naal Thu’umu, mu ofan nii nu, Dovahkiin, naal suleyk do Kaan, naal suleyk do Shor, ahrk naal suleyk do Atmorasewuth. Meyz nu Ysmir, Dovahsbrom. Dahmaan daar rok.”_  
  
When the earthquake ended, and mortals could stand up again, Marcurio rushed up to the throne chamber and passed through the curtains. Mohamara had the heavy iron chest he was using as a sleeping space snap shut on his fingers when the earthquake hit. The Imperial quickly lifted the lid and let the tojay yank his hand free to begin healing it rapidly.  
  
“See, this is why I told you not to use the chest as a bed,” Marcurio chided. “Something stupid was going to happen and you’d hurt yourself.”  
  
“Then you need to tell those freaks down there,” the cat all but yelled back due to pain, “to stop being so damn  _loud_  all night long! I sleep in there because it’s soundproofed!”  
  
“Well, they’re  _your_  people, you know. You could just ask them to… enjoy themselves slightly less?” Marcurio didn’t comment on how the cat had clearly been changing when the earthquake hit--into some of the velvet clothes Marcurio had made for him. That the Khajiit had passively accepted them was enough of a victory.  
  
“I went down there banging shields together screaming ‘I didn’t no sleep cause of y’all, y’all not going to get no sleep cause of me’, what more can I say to them about it?!”  
  
“Are either of you concerned about the earthquake and the voices we heard in it?!” Hadvar burst in and then hastily left with his hand over his eyes. “Oh, sorry, didn’t mean to catch you like that.”  
  
“Eh, it as probably Yagraz or something else thu’um related. She’ll call me to brag if anything important came up.” Literally moments later, his slate lit up from across the room and began playing Yagraz’s ringtone. “See? Told ya.”  
  
\--  
  
In a slipstream realm between Aetherius and Oblivion, two sisters met for the first time in Eras to talk directly to each other.  
  
Love-Family-Hope greeted the sister that came from Oblivion and filled the meeting space with the warmth she had for the other.  
  
Light-Love-Command enjoyed the warmth and told her sister so, and the two orbited each other as they had with their absent sister Dark-Luck-Trust in the time before time.  
  
Light-Love-Command asked her sister why she had requested the meeting, they weren’t due to see each other again until the mortal world aligned itself properly, and Time-Lord-Dragon had orbited it a certain number of times.  
  
Love-Family-Hope instead asked her sister if Light-Love-Command remembered that Love-Family-Hope loved her, and would raise not a blade against her.  
  
The Oblivion-bound sister was confused, but there was no lie in her memory. She told her sister that yes, she remembered.  
  
The Aetherial sister then said she had come to chastise Light-Love-Command for inflicting harm where she ought to have not.  
  
Light-Love-Command reviewed all that she had harmed in her memory but could find none where she ought to have not inflicted harm. It confused her that Love-Family-Hope might be wrong, and see things that had not happened.  
  
Love-Family-Hope created an effigy of a spirit that had only one name, Kind. It was brittle, cracked so much that only thin threads held it together, and obvious patches from Oath-Curse-Outcast and Poet-They-Creation covered the most gaping holes. Love-Family-Hope accused her sister of having no love for the spirit she depicted, and that was the harm she had inflicted.  
  
Light-Love-Command grew terribly angry, for she was Love as much as her sister, and all that existed was loved by her. She accused her sister of betraying her since she had named the spirit Love in the likeness of Love-Family-Hope.  
  
Love-Family-Hope asked her to point out where on the effigy of Kind was the Love Light-Love-Command had named for her. She watched patiently while Light-Love-Command tore apart the effigy looking for it.   
  
When Light-Love-Command touched it, veins of Love lit up but sputtered and struggled to exist. She said pointed to these struggling inclusions of Love and said they were all she needed to know that Kind had Love within it.  
  
Love-Family-Hope told her sister it was not enough. She told her sister it was shameful that Light-Love-Command could think that Love that lit up only when forced to by their touch would honor her, or her sister. And when Light-Love-Command grew angrier still, Love-Family-Hope asked if she had forgotten that her sister loved her.  
  
The Aetherial sister created a new effigy, based on the shape of Kind but whole. When she touched the second Kind, love roped through its existence and it became Kind-Love. Kind beheld Kind-Love and asked to no longer exist, for seeing what it was not and could never be harmed it.  
  
Light-Love-Command recoiled from the request, and could not understand how Love could be used to harm something in that way. She crashed into the slipstream realm and ground against the boundaries trying to make the two conflicting ideas line up.  
  
Love-Family-Hope dismissed the effigies and reached out to her sister. The two embraced and for a moment it was as things had been before Charm-Word-Change had begun the Endeavor.  
  
The Oblivion-bound sister asked the Aetherial sister how this had come to be. She could not understand how she had managed to do harm with Love. It seemed impossible, even for a transfinite being such as she.  
  
Love-Family-Hope spoke consolingly and told her sister that she had let Command win out over Love. The rules with which the Oblivion-bound sister shackled herself had kept her Love from reaching out as it ought to have. This resulted in a spirit that was broken and only starting to heal, and who only knew Love from the intervention of the sisters.  
  
Light-Love-Command asked what must be done to correct this, to undo the harm that had been done. She did not like that her sister’s answer was that she would have to subdue her pride, admit  _failure_  and ask that which she had harmed for forgiveness.  
  
The Oblivion-bound sister disliked it, even more, when her Aetherial sister told that it was possibly too late, and that which she had harmed wouldn’t forgive her.  
  
\--  
  
“So, short-stuff says you’ve been on the up-and-up.” Yagraz looked through the other end of the slate, watching Marcurio like a hawk. “Not done anything weird, except hang out with thieves and spiders.”  
  
Marcurio, seated on the throne in the second throne room while Mohamara worked on an enchantment project nearby, looked utterly scandalized. “How dare you call hanging out with spiders weird. They’re adorable and useful! Their venom has useful alchemical properties on top of being great for hunters, and their silk can be used for medical stitches and is as strong as iron.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” The Orc waved dismissively, and let Marcurio see she was in the tavern in Ivarstead. He knew from the local bard--one of Maven’s youngest son’s old flame. Whom had found her husband murdered by the Black-Briar boy in broad daylight. Sibbi Black-Briar wanted her found, and Marcurio had done it. But when the man tried to use the Guild to have the girl killed, he crossed the Dark Brotherhood in so doing.  
  
Not even Maven could keep him safe in prison after that.  
  
“So I’m going to ask you for your help and use your precarious situation to influence my thoughts on you and if I should tell short-stuff it’s safe to trust you more. Sound good? Yeah, sounds good.”  
  
The thief-mage arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t give me much choice there, you know.”  
  
“Hey, I’m Ysmir, Dragon of the North now. I don’t have to give  _anyone_  much choice.” Yagraz’s grin reminded Marcurio of his own, and he couldn’t help but admit that having a Dragonborn ally would be useful in strong-arming more dragons into his service. “See, I need to get into the Thalmor embassy. Got to do some sneaky things. And I  _suck_  at being sneaky, but you’re pretty good at it.”  
  
“What in Mara’s name do you need out of the  _Thalmor_?” Marcurio sat up straighter in the ancient Nord throne and wished that Mohamara had let him install cushions for a more comfortable sitting experience.  
  
“Some of the people I’ve been talking to suspect that they’re the ones who had Alduin World-Eater attack Solitude. I don’t agree, but they want to chase down this lead until it hits a dead end. So can you sneak in and rifle through their desks or something?”  
  
“The Thalmor embassy is one of the most well-guarded facilities in Skyrim.” Marcurio’s tone and facial expression were like he was talking to a child who ought to know better. “Defenses, both magical and mundane, dozens of incredibly perceptive Altmer guards who are literally stationed to guard seemingly pointless sections of the compound for hours on end. And you want me to break into this place… for paperwork?”  
  
Yagraz nodded and grinned at the thief.  
  
Seeing that there was no way out of this that would let his pride stay intact, Marcurio sighed. “I might have a couple ideas. There’s a troll den that they use for body disposal, but that goes out to the torture shed. Yes, it’s the size of a large house, and its name is literally ‘torture shed’. The only other way in that wouldn’t cause an international incident is a party Elenwen is throwing in a couple weeks.”  
  
“Well, that seems a pretty solid option. I can talk to my contacts and get a plan together using either of those, really, but I dig the subversion of them inviting a thief into their compound. But I guess you’re a major player in Skyrim now, aren’t you, slick?”  
  
Marcurio shook his head. “Elenwen’s party requires an invitation to attend. And  _I_  don’t have one.” Not that he’d have attended even if he had been--he had better things to do with his time than pander to Elenwen’s ego. Such as pandering to his own ego. “I happen to have an invitation, but it’s for someone else.”  
  
“...Who? Maven Black-Briar? Jarl Laila?”  
  
To answer her question, Marcurio turned the slate to look at Mohamara--hunched over an unknown pile of materials, weaving enchanting. His tail had fully grown back and was twitching with mild annoyance though he didn’t react to the conversation happening behind him as he had wax stuffed in his ears. His followers were getting noisy down in the lower sections of Volskygge.  
  
“Oh. This cannot possibly end well.”  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I made a kid!  
> \--You mucked up a perfectly good cat is what you've done. Look--it's got horrible mental health and is only functional because of other people trying to correct your mistakes.


	42. Feelings!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I scream! You scream! We all scream because life is suffering and the only true escape is death!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attachment theory is a theory that holds that in order for children to develop properly, they need a strong physical and emotional connection to at least one caregiver. Failure to meet this results in a person that struggles to regulate their feelings. In case you're wondering, Azura wasn't a good mother figure either.

  
\---  
 **Chapter 42: Feelings!**  
  
In the mind of a madman, Pelagius tried to sleep. Tried being the keyword. He was covered in tiny Sheogoraths climbing him like he was a mountain range. They were singing a ridiculous song about going up and going down recreationally. But they kept the night terrors away enough for the long-dead Emperor to doze if not truly sleep.  
  
All that came to an end when the air filled with blinding light and a keening wail like metal grinding on metal that caused Pelagius to sit up in his bed abruptly and clap his hands over his ears.  
  
“Aww, Meri-pants,” the Mad God pouted as his miniatures combined to form his normal Nord-sized self back. “I was having fun.” He moved Pelagius to a different section of the madman’s own mind so that his wife’s presence wouldn’t cause harm again, and waited for her to manifest.  
  
When she did, it was a subdued Meridia that approached him. Her wings did not manifest, and her hair of light only flickered into existence occasionally. The Glister Witch approached the Mad God and slumped onto him without prompting.  
  
“Oh no, the wordless flump of emotional overload.” Sheogorath’s words were muffled by Meridia’s torso covering his head. “This is either interesting or really, _aggressively_ bad news.”  
  
“I thought I was doing an alright job,” the Daedra of Day muttered and gradually oozed off of Sheogorath to lay beside him on the ground. “A bit strict, but as long as he loved me that everything was alright.”  
  
Sheogorath clapped his hands together, excitedly. “Ooh! Are we talking about your ex again?! “ He started to rifle through his pockets for something, while Meridia watched him impassively. “I had a speech for that occasion written down somewhere. Here, hold these.” The Mad God tossed a ring of keys, a key of rings, a chicken, an egg, a ship in a bottle, a bottle in the shape of a ship, a box of Cheez-Its, a giant clamshell that opened to reveal a mermaid holding the Imperial flag sitting next to her normal brother Norman, and a bag of jellybeans onto Meridia while he looked.  
  
“No, we’re not talking about Lorkhan. We’re talking about our son.”  
  
Sheogorath went back to pouting. “Aww come on, Meri-pants! It feels like that’s all we’ve talked about for bunches of years! The boy’s getting uninteresting, ya know?” That his words didn’t even wring a bit of outrage out of his wife caused the Mad God a moment of concern. “Has something interesting happened?”  
  
The Daedra of the Day sighed. “I… talked with my sister. And she told me that I had made a mess of our son. That the love I’ve been feeling from him isn’t… real. It’s a reaction caused by association with me. And that if he could truly feel love as I’d hoped he would, he’d want to kill himself.”  
  
Sheogorath whistled at that bomb drop. “Ooh, haven’t had one of the kids get so bad that suicide is on the table in a _long_ time! And it’s the first one you’ve been taking care of, too! We should have some cheesecake to celebrate.”  
  
At last, Meridia’s temper flared and she sat up to smack at Sheogorath. The items he had tossed on her spilled out of existence and drifted through the ground into the seas of Oblivion.  
  
“Ow! That’s the cheese-eating side of my mouth, dear, do mind the teeth.” Sheogorath rubbed at the developing ego-bruise then grinned at his wife once it cleared up. “Well come on, it’s not like he can _actually_ do it anymore. He’d just reform in….” He paused and considered. “I’m going to guess your realm? Does he have one of his own yet?”  
  
“Whether or not he can actually kill himself is unimportant.” Meridia sighed and held her head in her hands. “I’ve… f-hai-,” she struggled to articulate the word.  
  
Sheogorath tilted his head toward her and cupped his ear expectantly.  
  
“I’ve fai-l-... I’m a fa-hll. Gah!” The Glister Witch clawed at her hairless scalp. “I can’t say it! I know it, I can’t _unknow_ it, but I cannot speak it!”  
  
“You can’t say you’re a failure?” Sheogorath contorted his face into a catlike expression. “Would you like me to say you’re a failure of a parent for you? Would you like me to list _every single_ way you’ve failed? How your repeated, systematic failures have directly contributed to the situation we find ourselves in-hurk!”  
  
Meridia calmly reached out, grabbed the Mad God by the face, and squeezed his skull until it looked like someone had mangled a head-shaped mass of sculpting clay. “Yes. That. Thank you. Care to ply your more experienced parenting skills on how to _fix this situation_?”  
  
Sheogorath shook his head back into shape, with his face breaking free of his skull and splattering on a nearby rock. “I’m afraid you’ve done what even I was too afraid to do, Meri-pants.” The Mad God’s face slid down the surface of the rock while his body felt around for its missing part. “You’ve let the situation crumble to the point where it might be more efficient to simply… start over.”  
  
\--  
  
Elisif had come to visit Volskygge once the road into the valley was completed. The weather was getting colder, so most of Mohamara’s students had been enchanting silk cloaks with heat effects to fight off the cold. One of these, with a clasp of carved stahlrim in the shape of a wolf’s head, was presented to the Jarl as a gift. She wore it for her entire visit--at first as a gesture of thanks but afterward from the warmth it provided.  
  
The small touches of ‘frost-steel’ pushed the strength of cold-resistant enchantments from common soul strength into weaker greater soul strength. Effectively, it turned the cloak into a wearable heated blanket.  
  
To her disappointment, she wouldn’t actually get to meet Mohamara when she visited, it seemed. As it turned out, he was seeing to the reconstruction of Pinefrost Tower on behalf of the Legion. But her former fool’s husband to be was excellent company. Positively charming.  
  
He wove stories of life in Cyrodiil and the state of Skyrim in Stormcloak lands. From what the man said about Jarl Laila, she was far from the discontent rebel Elisif had imagined. The Rift’s Jarl, per Marcurio’s description, was an old-soul who felt bound by the laws of ancient Skyrim more than those of the Empire’s. Ulfric had challenged Torygg, and won--whether she liked it or not, Jarl Laila believed that made him High King.  
  
Perhaps, Elisif considered on hearing this, she could make an overture to Jarl Laila? She could agree to a cessation of hostilities and call for a Moot to decide the High Kingship. Would the other rebel Jarls have taken up arms at all had Elisif. and the Empire. given them a way to deny Ulfric’s claim while holding to Skyrim’s traditions? Elisif had been so hungry for Ulfric’s blood after her husband died in their duel, she hadn’t thought in that way.  
  
Perhaps, she grimly thought, that had been Ulfric’s plan. To play Skyrim against itself and plunge them into an easily avoided war.  
  
She had been seated in the grand throne in Volskygge’s entranceway, listening to Marcurio detail the benefits of spider silk over worm silk, when her dear friend and former fool surprised her with his return. Admittedly, it was not a happy surprise, mind.  
  
The Khajiit, substantially changed since she had last seen him, stormed into the Nord barrow-fortress in a frighteningly out of season level of dress. Just a garment around his waist and a ragged velvet cloak.  
  
At first, Elisif had thought the Khajiit had enchanted his clothes similarly to her gifted cloak, but when several of the pink cat’s pink coated students followed him, apologizing profusely, she figured something had come up and the look wasn’t intentional.  
  
“My Jarl, would you excuse me?” Marcurio inclined his head to the Nord woman. “I sense that something didn’t go according to schedule.”  
  
“Of course, tell Mohamara I appreciate the gift and I’d love to talk with him again when he gets a chance,” Elisif responded. She rose from the throne and started on her way back to the carriage outside. “And extend my apologies for seeing him post wardrobe-malfunction.”  
  
\--  
  
“I just can’t _believe_ this,” Marcurio snarled while he paced the foot of the stairs leading to the second throne room. “You-you trained them in basic aiming ability yes?”  
  
Behind the curtain, Mohamara was just as annoyed, but doing a better job handling it. Annoyance was one of a suite of minor emotions he could handle without Yehochanan needing to yank them out of his head. “I trained five of them in basic aiming. The Caller focused more on non-combat magic.” The cat mourned the loss of a perfectly good velvet ensemble but knew that it could be replaced. To be honest, he felt more for the bear that had attacked him, prompting the use of explosive fireball Destruction spells. The poor animal had taken minutes to die because Mohamara couldn’t find the right sympathetic bond to end its suffering early.  
  
“Well, the others need to catch up, then! They could have seriously injured you, injured each other, or brought that tower down with careless shooting!”  
  
The pink Khajiit peeked his head past the curtain and stuck his tongue out. “You’re just mad because they burned up that velvet stuff you got me.”  
  
Marcurio stamped his foot and pulled at his hair. _”It took three weeks to make!”_  
  
“Well, I’m dressed so you can come up here, I have something for you now.” The sabretoothed tojay vanished behind the curtain. However, by the time Marcurio ascended the stairs, the cat pulled open the curtain and held out a carved piece of stahlrim on a thin spider silk thread. “Ta-da!”  
  
Marcurio took it and examined the carving. The frost-steel had been carved to resemble a small flute with only three holes for note modulation. As he took it from the cat, he could feel _strong_ magic from within the item, far stronger than other enchantments the cat had made. “It’s… nice. What’s it do?”  
  
“Well, I remembered you had that muffle-bubble thing so I swiped it when you were sleeping a couple days ago--”  
  
“You what?” The thief-mage’s hand automatically went to the pocket where he kept the illusion-enchanted crystal, and sure enough, it was gone.  
  
“Then I got so many ideas for ways I could improve on the design!” Mohamara continued on as if Marcurio hadn’t spoken up. “Sound manipulation magic is good for a thief, right? So I added voice replication--you can mimic the voice of the last person you heard. Then there’s the standard muffling effect, a basic sonic explosion, hypnosis… I can’t remember them all but I wrote them down!” The cat dashed off to the impromptu workstation he’d developed and came back with a leather-bound journal.  
  
Marcurio looked inside and found it was less a journal and more an instruction manual. It included primitive sketches of the various design phases of the flute, as well as a single massive piece of artwork. It looked like a many-layered geometric pattern--a style of art he had seen in Khajiit and Dunmer art occasionally. A mandala.  
  
“Mandala enchanting style was a bitch to work with, but Orthorn gets it a bit better than I do and he helped out. Then I pulled some grand soul-thread from Meridia’s beacon because the enchantment needed more than one soul gem’s worth of thread.” He looked so pleased if he wasn’t pink already Marcurio would call the Khajiit tickled pink by the outcome. “So? Do you like it?”  
  
“It’s a gift from you to me, and if these notes are any indication of how useful I’ll find it, I think it would be impossible for me _not_ to like it.” The Imperial instinctively reached out to pat the Khajiit, but stopped himself and pulled back. “Sorry, I almost forgot myself.”  
  
However, Mohamara caught the Imperial’s hand in both of his and gently tugged it back to rest on the cat’s head. “Head pettings approved, you may proceed.”  
  
There was a moment of hesitation on Marcurio’s part before he began moving his hand as he had months ago, and soon found Mohamara pushing into the petting and enjoying it enough to purr. It was a mark of how far they’d come from the cat going into a panic attack at the possibilities Marcurio represented to accepting affection from him.  
  
And the moment was ruined by the cat being enveloped in golden light from his amulet and he ceased to exist. His servitors and the amulet were left floating in the air for a moment before gravity overtook them.  
  
Marcurio looked at where Mohamara had been and then to the servitors, and the stahlrim flute in his hand. “Please tell me that’s not an effect of this damn thing?”  
  
\--  
  
Where Monarchs Dwell was a realm of the Colored Rooms--the Yellow Room, where Meridia and her most holy servants dwelled. It was a dominion of golden light, pale yellow clouds that floated around towering cities of celestial bronze and white marble. Each city was the domain of a Champion, Vessel, or Most Holy priest of Meridia, and all orbited the city-mountain that was Meridia’s personal abode. It was here that Mohamara found himself, on a balcony jutting from the side of the city mountain. The rim was lined with free-standing pillars linked by fine golden fabric that caught the wind.  
  
But he didn’t pay heed to these beauties, because the second he knew where he was he’d curled up on the ground and was shielding his head like he expected soldiers of Meridia to manifest and start kicking him to death any second. Because he did. He knew from the fact that he’d been summoned to Meridia’s realm, to Meridia’s _personal domain_ , and how the very air seemed to constrict around him.  
  
More than one passing Daedra, seemingly formed from shining gold and white armor, flew by the summoning balcony and saw a pink Khajiit curled up and shaking something awful. The first to witness it drew its sword of burning light and advanced to slay the intruder, but was stopped by a shaft of golden light enveloping it. The Word poured into its existence, and it exploded.  
  
Unaware of these things, Mohamara was struck by a bit of debris from the exploding metal Daedra and curled up tighter expecting more blows any second. Instead, he picked up on soft metal-on-stone footsteps approaching him.  
  
“Hold for identi-scan, pilgrim,” spoke a male-modulated synthetic voice.  
  
A searing pain passed over Mohamara and drove the cat to clench his teeth to avoid whining.  
  
“Oh dear. It appears you are one of the unlucky two percent of the mortal population who has an allergic reaction to the identi-scan. I’m afraid I will have to do this the old-fashioned way. Name and appointment number?”  
  
“Mohamara Ahramani,” the cat muttered and dared to uncurl enough to look up. He saw a humanoid figure made out of what seemed to be Dwemer metal, with a face of pearly white porcelain and no joints connecting any of its moving parts. They just floated near each other to create a human-like shape.  
  
“Oh dear,” the metal Daedra said, aghast. Its hand passed over its face and when it had the porcelain expression had changed from neutral to pitying. “Your account is flagged with a great many Contempt-class violations. Using Holy materials for personal gain, failure to prioritize the Lady’s orders, suffering Necromancers to live, unauthorized acquisition of a Sphere, failure to report a sub-cult, the list goes on!” The metal Daedra tutted many times in sequence and swiped its hand across its face again, with its expression changing to sadistic glee. “You’re not going to be having a fun time with your audience, pilgrim.” Once again its expression was changed with a gesture, to a pleasant smile. “Before I relocate you to the waiting area, would you like to update your funerary records?”  
  
“...Could you make me an organ donor?” All the happiness that Mohamara had moments ago with Marcurio was replaced with inescapable dread and heaviness.  
  
“Done and done! Please enjoy your stay in Where Monarchs Dwell.” Mohamara’s vision was obscured by Daedric fire for a moment, and when it cleared he was in a sealed room of solid celestial bronze. The only light came from torches that hung from a ceiling so high up he couldn’t see it. There were no windows, doorways, or even seams in the room’s structure, meaning all the cat could do was sit on his ass and wait.  
  
He passed the time until his death in the only way that seemed appropriate. Screaming and running around the surface of the walls in a giant circle.  
  
All at once, he wasn’t in the ‘waiting area’ anymore. Suddenly, he was at the bottom of a tiered room standing in front of a desk where a sharply dressed Nord man was typing away at a translucent gold grimoire.  
  
“Mohamara Ahramani?” The Nord paused in his typing to look down his nose at the pink Khajiit who was standing sideways on thin air.  
  
The cat, suddenly realizing he was going to die soon, tried to make peace with all the things he’d left undone and all the mistakes he made. Automatically, he nodded as his mind was elsewhere.  
  
“The Lady will see you now.” Meridia’s secretary gestured to the top of the tiered room, as golden translucent blocks appeared in the air leading up to the distant ceiling. “You may take as long or as short as necessary to reach the Mountaintop. She’s cleared her schedule to address your… inadequacies.”  
  
Everything about what Mohamara heard only served to make his perception of the situation worse. Robotically, he walked sideways up the stairs and tried to think of how she would do it. Meridia could snap her fingers, and he’d explode. She could give him a stern look and he’d melt. Literally. Would she break him down into base components and rebuild him as the ideal servant? If she did so, would he remember being different, or would she leave the petty aspects of ‘who’ he’d been to drift away?  
  
All too soon, he was at the Mountaintop, where Meridia’s Word would fall down upon her faithful. The only reason he hadn’t broken down on the way up was that she would only be killing him. And there was nothing about himself that he deemed worthy of being mourned.  
  
The sky split apart, and the Daedra of Day stepped down. She resembled a human-shaped mass of light, with a dark orb at her center and detached feathered wings of the same light floating just off her shoulders. Looking at her was like looking at the sun, it burned and left spots in Mohamara’s eyes.  
  
When she said nothing as she stepped onto the marble summit of her city-mountain, Mohamara took the initiative. “I offer no defense,” he said with more strength than he felt. “What I’ve done cannot be excused. I’m ready to die for my transgressions, O Lady.”  
  
Meridia’s wings filled up the sky and wrapped around the Mountaintop, like an artificial peak. When she spoke, the air was filled with the sound of gentle rainfall. “You can think of no reason I would summon you here, other than to kill you?”  
  
He couldn’t understand why she was wasting valuable time by brandying words with him. He’d admitted his fault, she should have taken the invitation to be done with him and move on. “No, my Lady. I cannot.”  
  
The rainfall outside worsened significantly. Since her wings were not attached, Meridia could freely move around the Mountaintop, displaying a panoply of emotion purely through body language.  
  
All Mohamara could take from this was that he had somehow enraged her so much she was unable to process it all at once. Since she had no facial features, it was impossible to know otherwise.  
  
“I… am filled with this emotion. Like, sadness, disappointment, and longing all at once.” The Light Daedra held her head while she paced around. “Sheogorath tells me this is ‘regret’. It is like a poison to me that I can blame no one for but myself. Before you, I had never experienced it.”  
  
The cat’s ears drooped and his tail went between his legs from hearing this. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to do evil to you in this way--”  
  
“Stop!” She held out her hands to the tojay. “You’re making it worse!”  
  
“I’m sorry….”  
  
“Augh!” Thunder rumbled outside the wing barrier. “You didn’t _do anything_ , there is nothing to apologize _for_!”  
  
Confused, the tojay fidgeted a little and pushed his pointer fingers into each other. “Um. Your records say differently, Lady.”  
  
“The records are _wrong!_ Because I was _wrong_!” All at once, her light-body spasmed and shifted into a rainbow pattern before becoming pure white again. “I… was wrong. I was wrong? I was wrong.”  
  
Mohamara was impressed that he had screwed up so badly that Meridia was going _mad_ trying to process it all. Clearly, she couldn’t muster the presence of mind to do what must be done. “Lady--my presence is obviously upsetting you. I’m just--I’m going to jump off the side of the mountain and try to land head first. Then you can get on with your existence and get past whatever I did--”  
  
 _”You will stay right there, young man.”_ Whatever madness had befallen her lifted for a moment, and she was Mohamara’s imperious Lady of Life again.  
  
He paused in the midst of getting ready to run, afraid of what she would do if she caught him before he could split his head open on a rock.  
  
“There are… things I would say to you. But I _can’t_. It is like trying to breathe mercury--I just _can’t do it_.” Meridia paced again and pulled at her light scalp in frustration. Suddenly she stopped and approached the tojay. “But you have a Sphere, and it is Kindness. If I had Kindness, perhaps I could tell you what you needed to hear.”  
  
“If I knew how to give you my Sphere, I would--”  
  
The Prince flapped her hand in the cat’s face. “No. I don’t want to have the Sphere all to myself. What I propose is an exchange.” She crouched down to perhaps meet Mohamara’s eyes with hers, though she had none. “You share Kindness with me, and I will share one of my Spheres with you.” Meridia reached out to touch the Khajiit but paused and withdrew her hand. “Do you accept?”  
  
“Of course,” he responded, confused. “But--why?”  
  
“I _can’t_ say it. Not without Kindness. There is too much rigidity in me to try--I would break long before bending.” She regarded the Khajiit semi-mortal and sighed. “I cannot give you what I wish to--for Love would kill you just as certainly as I could. But perhaps something similar could help repair what I have broken. ...You may move, now. When you’re ready, give me your hand, and I will guide you on how to complete the process.”  
  
The cat squinted at the being of absolute light and slowly turned to look at her directly. “When you say ‘give me your hand’, you’re not going to be… taking my hand, are you? Cause I have this thing where bits of me that get cut off come to life and--”  
  
“Don’t worry, your grandmother has it the same way. And no, I won’t be literally taking your hand.” The Daedra paused and tilted her head. “Though your eyes are rather pretty. Wait, no! Don’t run! I was _trying to make a joke!_ Augh!”  
  
\---

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think the only unambiguously good parent among the et'Ada is Kyne--possibly Boethiah. Weird to think about, huh?


	43. Born Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babies are wonderful things! When planned. When discussed with your partner beforehand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Through the power of non-linear thought and excessive application of transfinite volumes of energy, you too can be born again! For the low-low price of spending half a decade unable to articulate a proper sentence.

  
\---  
**Chapter 43: Born Again**  
  
‘Llorona passed the Commandments to the Friends, and they read as such:  
  
“First, build for me no temples. Where you, my Friends, see those in need of shelter, build for them homes instead. Let them find in you someone they could lean on.  
  
Second, win for me no battles. When you, my Friends, see those injured or suffering from the effects of war--offer succor. When they are weak, lend them your strength that they may repay you in kind.  
  
Third, speak for those who cannot speak for themselves. Speak the Mourner’s Chant for the dead, even if they still walk. When you are safe, speak for those who are not. When the mighty crush the weak, call them out as monsters.  
  
Fourth, share your wealth with the poor. No life is worth less than gold, gems, or property. It is within you to abolish disparity, want, and poverty--remember that. Do not beggar yourselves to improve the lives of others, but look at those who have nothing and see yourself within them.  
  
Fifth, remember that any day could be your last. Speak the words you are afraid to say. Do that which you are afraid to do. Fill the world to the top with laughter and joy, so that it may become merrier for your efforts.”  
  
This confused the Friends, for these ways were alien to them. A God who wished no temples? Even fair Mara and Kyne wished for themselves a home. It was clever Adannna, who was shaped like Llorona, who pieced together the meaning behind the first Commandment.  
  
“Llorona does want a place to live, but not the extravagance of temples. When we build our homes, we will build a house for Llorona, and bid those without homes to live there until a house is ready for them. Not a temple, where we go to worship. But a home, where we and others may visit and find shelter.”  
  
The Friends of Llorona continued to meditate upon the other four Commandments, that they could find the hidden wisdom within.’  
  
Marcurio flipped through the so-called ‘Book of Llorona’ with disinterest. The would-be holy book his betrothed’s followers were writing about him was still unfinished, with great swathes of blank pages--some for illustration, others reserved for specific students to write their perceptions. The only reason he bothered to read the book was that he had exhausted every other book in Volskygge.  
  
It had been a week since Mohamara vanished, and so far nothing else had come of it. Yagraz had called to let the Khajiit know that some cultists were chasing after her, and she wanted him to look at their armor and weapons to figure out who their leader “Miraak’ was. While the Orc made her way north to Haafingar, Marcurio zoomed around Skyrim with his dragon to get work done.  
  
Mohamara’s followers had built a great cistern to collect rainwater, snowmelt, and the contents of Volskygge’s internal stream, resulting in a considerable pool for the frost dragon to swim about in. Fish and ducks for him to eat still had to be introduced; Kipgolsik had originally planned to bring whales to the tank but Mohamara’s servitors had indicated it was a bad idea.  
  
With his reading done, he dropped off the latest gift for his husband to be per the thief-mage’s schedule: A genuine Dwemer Lexicon. He’d gotten it from an Argonian who’d insisted he return it to Avanchanzel, a Dwemer ruin in the Rift. But a filled Lexicon from Avanchanzel was too tempting a gift for a developing god, in the Imperial’s opinion. Assuming it didn’t turn Mohamara as cruel as the Dwarves, mind.  
  
But since he was a Daedra of Kindness, could he even _be_ cruel anymore?  
  
“Yes,” the spider-crab said as it scuttled around the roof of the second throne room. “Kindness is subjective. Just as love can become a pain and then love again, kindness can become cruelty and kindness again. Sometimes, the kindest thing to do is make it hurt less than the negligent party deserves, but to that negligent party it will seem cruel.” The pink spider-crab clacked its claws like castanets to finish his brief lecture.  
  
“... I thought I told you to stop reading my mind?” Marcurio crossed his arms and pouted at the spider-crab. He couldn’t actually be mad at him--the spider-crab was just _too_ cute.  
  
“I thought the Master told you not to go through his things anymore, but that’s what I saw you doing yesterday.” More castanet claws accompanied the bit of shade.  
  
“It wasn’t going through his stuff, it was putting things _away_! Having all his clothes in wicker baskets isn’t going to do them any favors--and his house up there has plenty of storage furniture!”  
  
“We will see if the Master is of the same opinion when--” The spider-crab paused, and began to violently spasm in bursts. “Qorach and I need to get outside. _Now_.”  
  
Marcurio watched the spider-crab scurry to the iron doors to Mohamara’s incomplete house, and held them open for the flat-snake to slither out of the tojay’s sleeping chest and out of the building, with the Imperial following behind.  
  
“...Am I about to watch two Daedric animals have a bathroom emergency?” He stopped to consider what that would even _mean_ , given they never ate anything. Or at least, he’d never seen them nibbling on sweetrolls or such things. Did they eat metaphysical food? The ideas of food?  
  
When they got out to the house, the servitors immediately lept out a window and vanished behind the bear pelt blocking the snowy wind from entering. There was a prismatic explosion of light, which motivated Marcurio to rush to the doors. He walked on the thin air from the doors to the not yet constructed balcony and watched what appeared to be Yehochanan and Qorach’s bodies float away on the wind.  
  
“... Oh. They’re dead,” he realized with dawning sorrow. “Wonder if Meridia killed Mohamara then….”  
  
“No. We aren’t dead. We just needed to shed our skins.”  
  
When Marcurio turned to look at the side of the house, he found the two servitors… slightly changed. They no longer appeared to be animals, made from flesh, but rather like Dwemer automatons. The flat-snake and the spider-crab were crafted of metal, new and shining, and only slightly larger.  
  
“Tell me this isn’t because of the Lexicon I brought,” Marcurio pleaded as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “I mean, you’re still cute--just not _as_ cute as you were before.”  
  
“No, we always would come to look like this.” Yehochanan scuttled around to the top of the non-existent balcony’s roof. As the spider-crab moved, it was with small metallic noises that Marcurio would be able to pick up from a good distance off. That meant the spider-crab wouldn’t be able to sneak up on people anymore. “The Master has added a second Sphere to his list, and that power demands release. Qorach will go into the valley and distribute some of the Master’s new power, I will go into the mountains to do the same. He will return soon, wait here for him.”  
  
When Macurio glanced at the where the snake had been, he saw nothing. Qorach would continue to be a suitable ambush predator to keep the cat safe, then. However, when he blinked, Marcurio found the flat-snake in his face.  
  
“The Master has gained power over Life,” informed the second servitor. “He now has the ability to grant you immortality. Life without end. Do you accept?”  
  
The Imperial backed up a bit to get the incredibly venomous metal flat-snake out of his face. “Um. Maybe? I don’t know yet--it’s something I’d want to talk about with him first.” It would work with his deal with Nocturnal, however. And keep him from becoming one of her ‘shadows’. The thief-mage met the flat-snake’s garnet-red eyes and tried to impart some degree of solemnity with his next sentence: “And even if I did, I would want it to be from him directly.”  
  
Qorach was still for a moment before his wire-thin tongue flicked out to taste the air. “A good response.” The snake dropped from the overhang and fell down the side of the mountain, forming a ring as it bit its tail to bounce its way off to the valley below.  
  
Marcurio watched as Volskygge valley, previously in the onset of winter, became as spring again. Pine trees sprouted up, growing from seedlings into towering structures in the blink of an eye. The snow melted, and mountain flowers sprang up in great fields. Peculiar lavender-barked trees grew up from nothing around the cistern, and a similarly colored mist began to rise from the water.  
  
“If that’s what he’s doing to the valley, I wonder what’s going on in the mountains,” Marcurio muttered and walked back into the unfinished house, then inside out of the cold. “Probably something ridiculous that I need to be drunk to understand.”  
  
He didn’t notice that Masser and Secunda briefly vanished from the night sky and that when they appeared again they were both purest white.  
\--  
  
The Sphere of Kindness on its own was weak--barely providing power enough to raise up a mortal. But when it paired with another Sphere, it had a unique talent: It would square the effectiveness of the paired Sphere(s). So when Meridia had shared Life with Mohamara, and he, in turn, shared Kindness with her, they both experienced an explosion in power.  
  
Meridia vented this new power by funneling it into the creation of newer, more powerful, Daedra servants and to fill the empty space in her that the creation of Nirn had created. But Mohamara had no easy ways to vent--so he invented some.  
  
He was Khajiit, and that thread let him connect to all other Khajiit, and subsequently all Beastfolk. In this connection, he vented as much of Life as he could. All across Tamriel, a change had begun. Elderly Khajiit began to feel young again--with the grey in their fur vanishing as if they were physically growing younger. The toothless suddenly grew teeth again. And though none would notice it until much later, a great number of years was added to their lives.  
  
But still, it was too much. Life bounced along the connections Mohamara had, filling all containers it could find, and moving on once they could take no more. Until Life came to two containers utterly empty and ready to be filled: Jode and Jone.  
  
Filling them with Life was not enough--the decay the flesh-divinities had experienced filled them with holes through which Life bled through. If filled to saturation, they would become undead gods--and Mohamara found that repulsive. So instead he filled the holes with memory. The Moons had been Lorkhan, and Lorkhan was the god of Men, so he used memories of Man.  
  
He sorted through memories to find ones he could use. The years of bullying--wedgies, noogies, having his lunch stolen, mostly by humans were too petty. Plus Mohamara wanted to mostly destroy those memories anyway.  
  
The memory of Hadvar, who had asked his permission sprang up and connected with others that had done so: Elisif, Senna, Kodlak, and most importantly: Marcurio. These he used to fill the holes in Jode.  
  
In Jone, he found the memories of friendship worked best. The memories of Mohamara, Senna, and Eltrys in Markarth; the memories of living alongside Hadvar, and his Pink Coats--these were the things he used to plug the holes.  
  
With the holes filled, Life accumulated in the Moons--and the Dead came back to Life. Mohamara’s Sphere of Life expanded a little and came to include Rebirth. But he didn’t know that at first.  
  
What he knew was that when the exchange of Sphere was over Meridia’s wings parted to reveal metallic Daedra each the size of the city-mountain orbiting the summit of her realm and he had two squealing Khajiit kittens in his arms. They were both white, and their eyes weren’t open yet--an alfiq and what looked to be a tojay, from what Mohamara remembered. But they both had tiny little sabre-teeth sticking out from their top lips.  
  
“...Um, I can explain,” he offered to his Lady when she tilted her head at the noises they made. In reality, he could not explain as he had no idea what had caused them to exist.  
  
“There is no need, O Child Mine,” Meridia said in the warmest tone he had ever heard from her. It was the same tone she’d delivered his audience in all those years ago after he’d been declawed, where he had been convinced of her love. “I was wrong to think of you as my subordinate. You are a product of my love with Sheogorath, not another creation that I can command as I wish. Kindness allows me to see these things, and admit them.” The light figure bent down to pet the larger of the two kittens, the tojay male. The alfiq female got her turn afterward. “Perhaps that is why your sisters don’t care for me as much as I would like.”  
  
“Well, I’ve never met them, so I can’t comment.” He didn’t pick up on the ‘child’ part of Meridia’s speech quite as well as the Glister Witch would have liked. To him, who considered Meridia the architect of Nirn, all mortals were her children indirectly.  
  
“They are rather like your father, capricious, utterly certain of themselves, and mad. But perhaps I am mad too, for I love them still. As I love you.” She took Mohamara’s head in her hands and made him look into her featureless face. “Do not doubt that, O Child Mine. No matter where you go, what you do, or who you become: I will love you.”  
  
There was something different about Merida, now that she had Kindness within her. She was less harsh than the tojay remembered her being. He squinted at her and found that he could almost pick out details of a smiling face in the white light that comprised her.  
  
“I never doubted that, My Lady.” He shrugged and jostled the kittens into squalling for attention again by accident. “But--like you said, just because you love someone doesn’t mean you cannot be angry with them.”  
  
“...I did say that. And you’re right, it’s still true. I don’t know--I’ve never been this...adaptable before, perhaps that will change too.” The Prince stood tall, and her wings connected back to her. “You may return to Nirn--I must be off, to speak with Sheogorath about this, and inform him that he is a grandfather at long last.”  
  
That drove Mohamara’s ears to go flat and his tail to puff up. “I’m not going to let him eat these two--Prince or no, grandpa or no.”  
  
Meridia actually laughed at that. “I will keep him in check so that it doesn’t come to that. Goodbye, and thank you for your Kindness.” The Daedra of Day flew back into the sky and vanished.  
  
Left alone with two squalling kittens, Mohamara sighed and sat down while he waited for someone to either tell him _how_ to get back to Nirn or send him there. He sat down cross-legged and looked at the two newborn cats. “I don’t know how good a dad I’m going to be, but I hope I’m a better parent for you than I had to deal with.” He let them float in the air while he unzipped the sleeves from his hoodie-jacket. It had been a stupid fashion trend when he was seventeen--detachable or fully detached sleeves. The two sleeves found a new use, being wrapped around the sabretoothed kittens--they were so small! “Probably should have brought the prospect of children up to Marcurio, but given I’m… I guess I _am_ a minor god now. This sort of thing happens all the time in stories.” The pink tojay squinted at the two kittens, who calmed down with their new wrappings once he held them close to his torso. “And neither of you better try nursing--I’ve got plenty of goat and cow’s milk back home for you but none here.”  
  
\--  
  
When Yagraz showed up in Volskygge, it was to an unseasonably spring-like atmosphere. There was no snow in the valley, but trees so tall she could see them for miles. Spriggans--Ehlnofey of nature that guarded the wild places of the world, walked alongside pink-coated people through the mighty forest. There was a strange small lake she didn’t recall being there before, surrounded by lavender mist and similarly colored trees.  
  
The Nordic barrow had been fully converted into the starting place for a settlement, and for once not everyone around gave her weird looks. Something had happened to the moons--it was all anyone had been talking about in Whiterun and the towns on the road to Haafingar. Most took it as a sign of Lorkhan returning to life--but Yagraz knew better.  
  
It had always been weird how different the moons had been to how she remembered them in her own time--especially given how holy men she talked to about it said they were dead and rotting pieces of god-corpses. But recently, that had changed. The moons had become perfectly white and featureless in their surface--though still different sizes.  
  
Behind her, the Bash Brothers followed. Farkas seemed to be enjoying the random items of food Mohamara’s Pink Coats offered to him, but Vilkas seemed to find the whole place unpleasant. They had come for personal reasons: To have the same cure that Kodlak had benefited from, and be free of the beast blood.  
  
They didn’t like being made to wait in the throne room while the Orc went on ahead, but when she mentioned that the people farmed frostbite spiders, it motivated Farkas at least not to proceed.  
  
Yagraz followed the doors until she found herself in what the minions called the second throne room, where slick leaned on a wall.  
  
“He’s still not back yet?” She asked as she tossed the bag of Miraak cultist gear into a corner. “Wonder what’s taking so long.”  
  
“Yehochanan said he’d be back ‘soon’, days ago,” Marcurio shrugged and combed his hair while looking into a tiny mirror. “So I’m making sure I look perfect for when he gets back. Which, since you’ve finally shown up should be in three… two… one.”  
  
There was a flash of light from the curtained off throne chamber and a faint sound of... babies crying?  
  
Marcurio had been looking so pleased with himself for correctly predicting it, and all the color drained from his face at the sound of babies.  
  
Both Yagraz and Marcurio lept to the same conclusion: Mohamara had been de-aged. They rushed up the stairs, not stopping to think of why a baby Mohamara would sound like multiple babies and threw open the curtain.  
  
Inside the found Mohamara walking around with two Khajiit babies wrapped up in white and red fabric that Yagraz identified as his jacket sleeves. He was humming a little song to them, perhaps a Meridian lullaby, while he set them to float in the air, then zoomed past Orc and Imperial with the power of his Red Shoes.  
  
The two of them quietly--Marcurio far more than Yagraz--sneaked into the throne room to examine the kittens. One was far more humanoid than the other, but Yagraz couldn’t tell what type of Khajiit they were yet. But they were both pure white, neither had their eyes open yet, and they each had a pair of sabre-teeth poking out of their mouths.  
  
“Slick,” Yagraz whispered while she slowly looked over at the stunned Imperial. “Did you knock up my best friend before you two were married?”  
  
“No!” Marcurio was careful to also whisper. “At least… I don’t think I did. It seems like something I would remember.”  
  
“See, these babies are both cats, which means Mohamara had to be the ‘mother’. So either _you_ did the knocking up, or--”  
  
Suddenly Marcurio snapped his head to look her in the eyes. “You don’t think… Meridia?”  
  
Yagraz slapped him as quietly as she could. “Don’t ask stupid questions like that. More likely one of Meridia’s minions.” She paused and considered. “Wait, do Meridia’s minions even _have_ dicks? They’re all metal.”  
  
“You will not speak of dicks around my children,” Mohamara said as he ascended the stairs again with Adannna and a formerly Forsworn matron following him. “At least not until they’re old enough to find it amusing.” He held in his hand two impromptu bottles full of cow’s milk mixed with some glittering substance. “Adannna says it’s absolutely vital for Khajiit children to have moon sugar in their milk to ensure healthy social development later. And Werac here has raised eighteen children, so she’ll be the parenting tutor.” Mohamara held a bottle up to Marcurio and then pointed at the kittens. “You might not be _the_ father, but I would like you to be _their_ other father. Pick one to feed, would you?”  
  
Marcurio looked from the bottle to Mohamara, and then to the kittens. Without saying a word more, he reached out and took the more humanoid of the two and immediately put the baby into appropriate baby-holding position as he’d done for his youngest sisters.  
  
“That one’s Jone, I think he’s going to be a bit of a crybaby from how his sympathetic bonds are forming.” Mohamara took the smaller kitten and let Adannna show him how to hold her. “And this one is Jode, she’s going to play roughly a bit too much, and grow faster than her brother.”  
  
“Waitaminute, Jone, and Jode? _The_ Jone and Jode?” Marcurio made the mistake of speaking normally and prompting the baby he held to start crying out until he was silenced with a sugar-milk bottle.  
  
“So,” Yagraz commented while she side-walked to flank the Reachwoman matron, Werac. “I’m pleased as punch to be an auntie, and I’m going to be spoiling these kids _rotten_ when they get older, but I have to ask.” She turned to look at the elderly woman’s face, covered in Forsworn tattoos. “ _Eighteen_ kids?”  
  
“I only count the ones that lived to adulthood,” the Reachwoman replied while crossing her arms in a challenge.  
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara of the bloodline of Music and Love. King of Kindness, the mask of Llorona, father of the Moons, the Cat that Sings, and other titles to be gained later. Lord of the Nine Provinces of Tamriel, and protector of the Realm. Did I do the meme right?


	44. Hugs approved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jo'leen, Jo'leen, Jo'leen, Jo'leen! I'm begging of you: Please don't take my ham.

  
\---  
 **Chapter 44:** Hugs approved.  
  
“I figured you’d be good with kids, considering what I saw of you in Helgen,” Marcurio commented while feeding Jone a moon sugar and milk bottle. The little guy’s ears twitched as he drank, which Marcurio had to admit was adorable beyond reason. He sat on the lid of Mohamara’s sleeping chest while a pair of rocking chairs were constructed to Werac’s specifications. Apparently, the rocking motion was vital for keeping a parent from setting fire to the drapes in boredom while their children slept on them.  
  
Mohamara had the option to float in a manner reminiscent of a rocking chair while feeding Jode. “When did this happen? I don’t remember you ever being there when I was talking with those kids.” The tojay hastily brushed off some excess milk from the kitten’s chin and touched his nose to hers before resuming her feeding.  
  
“The same day that waify dark elf snatched ya, short-stuff.” Yagraz took some of the nails out from between her teeth to hammer into sections of wood for the rocking chair. She brandished the hammer at the Imperial. “Which I still got a bone to pick with her about, so you know.”  
  
The tojay turned slightly pinker in his face and ears. “Oh.”  
  
Marcurio didn’t imagine it was a good time in his life, given the indignity of the muzzle and kidnapping itself. There had been so much chaos, he had almost forgotten his grudge with Karliah over the event. But when next he had the time, he decided to pay a visit to the Guild and let her know that she had made _mistakes_.  
  
“Don’t like, beat her up or anything would you?” The tojay hastily spoke up. “I can see you guys thinking about revenge--but she didn’t mean to hurt anyone except Mercer.” He shrugged and looked down at Jode who had been attempting to gum his fingers rather than her bottle. “I mean--she didn’t really care who she hurt at first, but after that thing with Vasha and the horse, she _started_ to.”  
  
All the non-Mohamara adults who were assembled in the throne room suddenly had eyes only for the colorful tojay. “What Vasha thing?” They asked as one. Even Jode chose to ‘mew’ at the same time.  
  
“She needed to get a horse, and as Sheogorath has told me, Vasha could have done way worse….” Mohamara’s ears and face went far too red at the realization he’d made it so much worse by talking. “I’m only telling one of you, so sort out amongst yourselves who it is.”  
  
Marcurio quickly passed Jone and his bottle off to Adannna and approached the tojay while Yagraz did so as well. The two of them squared up on either side of Mohamara and met each other’s eyes. “Fiance,” the Imperial said as if it won him the right automatically.  
  
“Best friend,” Yagraz said in the same tone. And so it went between them, each declaring their right to know with progressively more aggressive and overtly threatening gestures. Until Yagraz found a compromise that Marcurio could accept. She laid one hand out flat and placed into it her other hand as a fist.  
  
Marcurio mirrored the gesture and the game was started. Best two of three was the unspoken agreement. Once, and once again they raised their fists and dropped them into their open palms. On the third, their choice was made. He’d figured her to go for the scissors first--the stereotype would be that an Orc would go for rock, but Yagraz was not stereotypical. Marcurio won the first round.  
  
The second round was a tie, double-rocks. And then Yagraz won the third round by going scissors into Marcurio’s paper. It all came down to one final round, barring another draw. Yagraz used her superior height to loom over the Imperial. And Marcurio, in turn, used his unhinged grin to put her ill at ease.  
  
Jode continued to try gumming her father’s fingers while this took place--her fangs were still too short to do meaningful damage.  
  
Once, their hands went up and came down again. Yagraz rumbled the air with the strength of her Voice. Marcurio had clouds of ice billow from his nose as he exhaled. Again, their hands went up and came down. Adannna successfully burped Jone.  
  
The final decisions were made, and the contest ended. Yagraz, with her hand flat, could only scowl at Marcurio with his pointer and middle fingers extended. She roared in frustration and went back to working on the rocking chairs. Meanwhile, Marcurio--a graceful winner--quickly bent down to hear the secret ‘Vasha thing’ Mohamara had to tell.  
  
As the tojay whispered in his ear, Marcurio’s facial journey proved almost as good as hearing what Mohamara had to say. Confusion became distaste, then revulsion, then disbelief, then _why_ , then stunned, and finally suppressed homicidal rage.  
  
“I honestly wish I hadn’t won,” the Imperial said at length once the secret was shared. “I can’t murder her over this--Nocturnal contract and all.” He stopped to consider, then looked at Mohamara. “But _you_ have life powers now….”  
  
“I’m not making my aunt Nocturnal mad that I messed with one of her debtors for vengeance.”  
  
“Damn.”  
  
\--  
  
The next few days saw Marcurio busy--by design. He needed to distract himself from the reality of suddenly being a parental figure--something he’d hoped marriage to another man would avoid--all at once. He got the Goldtooth Silk Farm North up and running, with the silk to be sent off to Radiant Raiment for tailoring until a full-time tailor could be hired.  
  
Fortunately, Werac and Adannna both insisted that the children receive milk from a proper Khajiit woman as goat and cow’s milk wouldn’t give them the right level of nutrition. No one wanted to ask if the future gods of the moons would even need nutrition. Marcurio and Kipgolsik were appropriated for this purpose--acquiring a wet nurse from Ahkari’s caravan. Imagine his surprise when he found the cats not camped outside the city, but in Mistveil keep.  
  
The Khajiit were being treated like honored guests, something that clearly irked every non-Khajiit involved--except Laila. Marcurio heard from the guards that Laila had taken to fawning over the Khajiit children and worked tirelessly to act as a nanny. It provided the actual childminders for the caravan some reprieve, at least.  
  
“Is bringing the ja’khajiit to the caravan not an option?” Ahkari asked when Marcurio brought up the need to her. “In Riften castle, Khajiit are safe and warm. Oh, perhaps is the mother too weak for travel? Hmm.”  
  
Marcurio waved his hand. “The kittens weren’t… they were born magically--to that tojay me, and possibly Ri'saad told you about.”  
  
Akhari’s ears perked up. “Skooma Cat’s ja’khajiit?” When Marcurio affirmed her guess, the caravan leader quickly finished her wine then stood and led the way to the caravan’s section of the castle. She barked orders in ta’agra and more than once stopped the older children from some mischief--stealing the clothes from bathing people, eating cake batter before it could be baked, among other childish things.  
  
Near the courtyard wall was a positively massive cathay-raht woman, decked out in layers of brightly colored shawls and gaudy jewelry, She had a dagi infant on her lap, who was getting her hair brushed.  
  
Marcurio stood awkwardly while the two Khajiit women talked. Ahkari would occasionally gesture to Marcurio in a way he knew meant ‘he’s going to screw it up’. Normally, he would have made it a vendetta to spitefully prove her wrong--but the context of child care had him reluctantly agree with her. Caring for baby sisters had been a passing fancy for him--to be shoved off onto servants when it got difficult.  
  
The cathay-raht woman took out her smoking pipe and blew a small cloud up and away from her conversation partner and infant. “Khajiit will not be cheap,” she said at last in common. “But to win favor of Skooma Cat’s ja’khajiit for this one and Khajiit’s own ja’khajiit, this one will offer discount.”  
  
“Skooma Cat’s favor is not usually _sought_ after,” Marcurio commented in a way to ask questions without actually questioning her. Khajiit liked little displays of cleverness like that.  
  
It seemed to work, as the cathay-raht grinned around her pipe and adjusted her dagi daughter to face Marcurio. “Skooma Cat is cleverest. Thief who never gets caught--not even Rajin can claim that. Khajiit wants great cleverness for ja’khajiit, so she can live long and happy.” The woman stood, and for a horrifying moment Marcurio thought she would prove to be taller than Big Cat Kessei, but no. “This one is Jo’leen, will pack and be ready to leave in one hour’s time.”  
  
The Imperial nodded and offered his hand to shake. He realized as the movement was reciprocated that her hand was easily bigger than _his head_. Once freed, he left the caravan’s section of Mistveil keep. Not before encouraging some teenage Khajiit thieves he encountered on the way, of course. Outwardly calm, he left the castle altogether and made his way to the less respectable parts of town. As he passed, the grip of winter deepened; water froze, the cold became more severe, and snow began to fall despite only a thin layer of clouds overhead.  
  
It followed him into the ratway and proceeded ahead of him. The thin layer of ice that developed on the ground let him slide for periods, like skating. When he threw open the door of the Flagon, a sudden icy wind preceded him--and froze the cistern, the water on the walls, and even the drinks in patron’s flagons.  
  
“Karliah,” Marcurio called out singsong as he slowly walked forward. There was no sound but the ‘clack’ of his boots on the icy stone. “Sweetie? I need to have a word with you….”  
  
“Run lass,” Brynjolf muttered to someone near him at the bar.  
  
Karliah it was revealed to be as she darted down the passage to the Warrens and the Guild.  
  
“Why are you running? _Why are you running?_ Have you done something wrong, Karliah? Did you _fuck up royal?_ ” Marcurio’s persona of being saccharine gradually melted away. Brynjolf rose to try and stall, but found himself held fast by a paralysis spell. “Karliah?”  
  
She’d ducked into the Warrens, a minor labyrinth where the madmen and freaks lived. Perhaps she was looking to escape him by having the poor souls throw themselves at him. But with ice on the ground, Marcurio could gain ground faster than she could put it between them.  
  
“You’re just going to **die tired** , Karliah. **Karliah!** ” A metal door suddenly opened in Marcurio’s path, cutting his advance on her short enough, quickly enough, to leave his face impressed on the metal.  
  
The door owner looked around for the source of the shouting but could find nothing to his satisfaction and closed the door.  
  
Marcurio promised that after Karliah had paid for what she’d done, the random Warrens resident would die too.  
  
Karliah was fast, and clever in escape--she’d been on the run for decades after all. But her tricks couldn’t fool Marcurio who could set entire hallways alight with fire if she went invisible, or bid the rocks reshape if she tried climbing away. That his Nightingale power of ridiculous luck helped him catch her each and every time she tried to get away gradually eroded her will to run.  
  
“Killing me won’t get you what you want,” Karliah defended herself while Marcurio advanced. She had finally been cornered in the deepest part of the Warrens, Marcurio stood in the only avenue out.  
  
“On the contrary.” Marcurio’s faux-cheer returned as he reached into his robes. Perhaps for a knife. “I only said that because I needed the others to think I was ready to murder you for what you did to my fiance.”  
  
It wasn’t a knife, as it turned out, but a scroll. A scroll which he callously tossed to her. The Dunmer’s confusion pleased the Imperial, but he kept his face in a stony scowl lest she doubt his seriousness.  
  
“A… bill?” Karliah, after opening the scroll, found its contents perplexing. But she was a thief, and quickly looked over the sums and terms of the document. “Two bills?”  
  
“One for the Dark Brotherhood contract I had to put out on Vasha for his part in your kidnapping. And another for the property of my fiance’s that you let him keep as a _trinket_.” He let her parse the document some more in silence before speaking again. “He understood how it was necessary to deal with Mercer in the big picture. And he advocated for leniency. So here it is.” Marcurio pretended to examine his nails. “A sum that you can pay in one lump or in installments--I don’t care which. Just see that it happens.”  
  
“I expected… well, I expected violence to be how you’d deal with this.” Karliah actually jumped from the venomous look that Marcurio gave her for her comment. It looked _so strikingly_ like how Maven would look when dealing with stupid questions.  
  
“The two of us aren’t ever going to be friends--or at least, it will take time to mend all the bridges you burned to bring down Mercer.” Marcurio turned away and started off back toward the flagon. “Besides which, seeing you afraid of what I was going to do--so scared that you just _bolted_ rather than try to reason with me was surprisingly cathartic.”  
  
  
\--  
  
  
Naturally, Sheogorath came to see the baby Khajiit soon after Marcurio returned to Volskygge. He had accidentally thrown an ice spear at the Mad God when he’d snapped into existence mid-conversation with Mohamara and Jo’lene. The thief-mage had been in the middle of talking about the possibility of bringing Jone and Jode to live with Ahkari’s caravan--which the tojay had a surprisingly open mind about.  
  
He’d expected Mohamara to refuse the Mad God an audience with his grandchildren, but the Khajiit just glared at Sheogorath.  
  
“You try to eat them, you make _jokes_ about eating them, or try to convince _me_ to eat them, and I will murder you,” the tojay told the Daedra. “Not even kidding--you know _I_ know how to do it.”  
  
The Mad God seemed… nostalgic as Mohamara glared at him. “You’re so much like your mother was when your first sister was born. And then she threatened to turn all the cheese in the Aurbis into ice cream if I did it anyway.” He dabbed his face with Mohamara’s tail to dry tears that came out as small pebbles. “Oh, I’m getting misty-eyed from thinking about it.” Then the Mad God paused. “Wait, I’m always misty-eyed, my eyes are white!”  
  
His rambling was put to an end as Jone and Jode were gently placed into his arms. The Mad God took a moment to process this before he became a cooing, gushing mess of a Daedra. Mohamara tilted one ear toward the Daedra with the happy kittens but otherwise returned his focus to Marcurio and Jo’leen.  
  
“Being raised among the Khajiit would be great--they’d have a better connection to the culture than I do, which they’ll need when they’re grown up. Plus, growing up among Nords isn’t…,” the cat shrugged and looked lost in memories. “It isn’t fun. I’d like to spare them that if I can.”  
  
“Khajiit speaks as if there is no hope for him also knowing Khajiit,” Jo’leen commented and poked the substantially shorter cat with her pipe. “Hmm? Think it too late to learn the ways of your people?”  
  
“Yes.” Mohamara’s answer was blunt, without hesitation. “I speak and think like a Nord. Skyrim is my home--I’ve never even been to Elsweyr or had moon sugar before. I don’t know how to do what tojay are expected.” He shrugged. “I can learn, but it won’t have the same importance to me.”  
  
Jo’leen flicked her hand, dismissive. “Is because you have not started the path yet. You live among the Khajiit for a year’s time, we fix.”  
  
Marcurio ‘hmmed’, and put in his contribution to the campaign. “I have a castle in the Rift. Right next to a mansion. Could probably start a settlement that the caravan could trade with if we got enough people.”  
  
Mohamara stopped paying attention for a moment to whirl around and point dramatically at Sheogorath. In the time between the babies getting his attention and Mohamara’s reaction, the Mad God had taken on his Khajiit aspect and started licking Jone. That was put a stop to by Sheggorath’s head swelling up and exploding into cheese-themed confetti.  
  
The Mad Cat put Jode on his shoulder, reached into his coat and pulled a replacement head out that he then screwed onto his neck. “Khajiit was bathing ja’khajiit…,” the Mad Cat defended himself.  
  
“I heard your growing that second set of jaws for pulling prey down your throat,” Mohamara growled. “Next time, you lose your grandbaby privileges.”  
  
“...Which one is parent to which, again?” Jo’leen’s comment fell on deaf ears as soon after Jone began to wail.  
  
\--  
  
That night, the two fiances were alone while Werac and Jo’lene had a loud conversation in a nearby room. It was Jode and Jone’s feeding time, though their small size meant they didn’t cut into Jo’lene’s daughter’s feeding too much. Little Baishi, the dagi infant, seemed annoyed that the two kittens were too young to play with her.  
  
“Could you help me with my hair?” Marcurio asked the tojay. And then immediately had to clarify when Mohamara held up a knife. “No, I meant brushing.”  
  
Mohamara knew that the Imperial didn’t _need_ his help with brushing his own hair, but still, he’d been asked. “I don’t know much about brushing long hair like yours,” Mohamara said while he hopped down onto the stone bench along the wall of the throne room. “Any pointers?”  
  
“I don’t have any tangles, so you don’t have to worry about that.” Marcurio undid his braid and handed the cat one of the camphor brushes that he’d given the cat weeks prior. “Just separate into four sections and do a little bit at a time.”  
  
There was silence between them while the tojay hesitantly started on brushing Marcurio’s hair. Meanwhile, the tawdry tales Werac and Jo’leen were telling each other echoed down the stone hall. Mohamara couldn’t help but notice the sympathetic bonds in Marcurio that spoke of a whirling storm beneath calm waters.  
  
“Knowing what happened, would you be angrier with me if Yagraz had won instead?” Kindness demanded he take the burden from Marcurio and start the talk himself.  
  
“I am not angry with you,” Marcurio responded. “Not about that.”  
  
“You’re angry that I asked you to show leniency. Because you don’t think she deserves it.” One section of Marcurio’s hair was brushed, so Mohamara moved onto the next. It amazed him that the Imperial was still keeping to the boundaries they had set up despite his feelings at present. “You’re right, she doesn’t. But kindness isn’t about giving people what they deserve.”  
  
“So you know, if someone wrongs _me_ that badly, no matter how many times you ask I show them kindness, the answer will be no.” He shifted slightly so that Mohamara didn’t have to stand to reach his head. “I’m too vengeful.”  
  
“Thank you for going along with it, even if it went against your nature to do so.” They didn’t talk further until Mohamara was finished. “Would you like to do me?”  
  
He realized how it sounded immediately after he’d said it, and began to hastily attempt to retract the offer. Marcurio slowly turned and looked at him with an arched eyebrow. Gently, while Mohamara continued to stammer, he took the brush from the cat’s hands and bade him turn around.  
  
“If you hadn’t slipped, and mentioned it at all, would you have ever told me?” Marcurio kept his tone neutral, and no sympathetic bonds to outrage or betrayal could be found from Mohamara’s perspective.  
  
It was… odd, being brushed by someone else. Quickly, it became obvious that Mohamara’s fur was too short for the brush they had used previously, so it had to be switched out. “No,” Mohamara admitted. “I would have been too afraid that you’d….” Leave, be disgusted, _laugh_ ; all these ideas swirled around in his head. But thankfully, Marcurio couldn’t read minds.  
  
“...When we had our first heart to heart, I told you I wasn’t afraid of a partner who had issues. That’s still true today, and it will continue to be true.” The brushing stopped, and Mohamara heard it set aside. “I submit a hug request.”  
  
“Hug request approved.” In short order, the tojay was enveloped in a hug from behind by the Imperial and held tight. Thankfully, even sitting down Mohamara was too short to have Marcurio rest his chin on the cat’s head--he didn’t want to catch the Imperial’s poor facial hair fashions. “This is nice.”  
  
“It is. Think we can catch a nap before the kids are done with their meal?”  
  
“Well, Werac just started the story of that time she forgot she was pregnant, and she doesn’t like pausing stories, so we’ve got about forty-five minutes I think.”  
  
“The first one to sleep gets to use the other as a pillow.”  
  
“A nap race with a cat? Bold strategy.”  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case your wondering, no. What Vasha did isn't going to be detailed further. This is a family friendly fic about gay cats and divine family drama.


	45. Sleeping tree sap is good?!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mmm, face soup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For today's chapter, the role of M'aiq the Liar will be voiced by Ellen Degeneres.

  
  
\---  
  
**Chapter 45:** Sleeping tree sap is good?!  
  
There was a problem in Volskygge, and it was entirely Mohamara’s fault. It caused everyone distress, unease, and generally put a halt to everything that needed doing that morning as people tried to deal with Mohamara’s quirks. Werac, The Caller, and Jo’leen were gathered around Mohamara’s sleeping chest, looking inside.  
  
On a layer of pillows and folded bear furs slept the pink-striped cat, and on his chest were the kittens. It was near time for their morning feeding, but any attempts to extract the kittens from Mohamara’s embrace was met with a rumbling growl that shook the mountain. Even Yehochanan and Qorach could not safely approach the babies. However, Orthorn had a clever idea.  
  
He stuck his hand in and purposefully touched a single hair on Jone’s head. Immediately, like an angered crocodile, Mohamara opened his mouth and chomped down on the high elf's forearm.  
  
“This… is the _worst_ pain,” Orthorn said as he struggled not to weep. The Master’s saber teeth had gone directly between the two bones in his forearm. “Why aren’t you getting them out yet?!”  
  
Once the kittens were extracted from the sleeping chest, the issue became how they were going to get Orthorn free of Mohamara’s vice grip. The Master had become a heavy sleeper since the kittens’ arrival, understandable since he usually had to deal with their crying on his own.   
  
Sleeping in a soundproofed chest cut both ways.  
  
A bar was inserted between his teeth to try and pry the tojay’s jaw open. Pepper was poured into his nose to try and get him to sneeze. Orthorn suffered the pain of the failures, so no one really cared how many attempts they had to make. The only time he point blank refused an attempt was when Galamir brought out a saw.  
  
Out of options, they resigned themselves to wait for the Master to wake. At least, until Yehochanan had an idea. He scurried off into the mountain and came back with a massive bottle of purple, glittering liquid. Once he popped the cork and waved it under the Master’s nose, the tojay’s jaw went slack.  
  
When he woke up much later, Mohamara didn’t understand how the kittens’ morning feeding could have necessitated Orthorn’s arm be in a sling with multiple regeneration items for the rest of the day.  
  
\--  
  
Strange purple trees had taken to growing throughout the valley since Mohamara had come back from the Coloured Rooms. The magical faux-spring that the valley benefited from proved good for their growth--as did the many small ponds formed from snowmelt and aquifers below. Water that grew near them became misty and tinged purple like the bark and leaves of the trees. But by far the most peculiar thing was their sap--viscous, scented like oranges and grapes, and glittered in the light.  
  
The alchemists among the Pink Coats were fascinated by the stuff, and through Jo’leen they learned the name for the trees: Sleeping Trees, named for the drowsy effect that their sap would have once consumed.  
  
Mohamara couldn’t get enough of the stuff.  
  
He mixed it into his milk at every meal, he’d spread it on slices of bread for a snack, and sometimes he’d mix in just a bit with his bath water to get the glittering effect on his fur. He grew to increasingly rely upon it to get through the weeks as the kittens continued to develop and greater numbers of people came to the valley.  
  
As it turned out, a place as warm as spring even in the bleak of Skyrim’s winters was an _intensely_ motivating factor for people to move. Most of the migrants were Reachmen and women, sometimes former Forsworn who came up north to escape a growing plague in the Reach.  
  
But then others would come, for their own curiosity. Pilgrims of Kynareth were convinced it was the work of their goddess--mercy shown in the face of the terrible war and dragon attacks. Mohamara didn’t know Kynareth all that well other than she too was likely his aunt. Researchers from the great cities of Skyrim came to find the cause. And some Orcs from a nearby stronghold in the Reach came to trade food for goods.  
  
They always seemed surprised that they were welcome--not tolerated, welcomed.  
  
Then came the Liar.  
  
The kittens, with their eyes and ears open at last, were playing with Baishi as much as they were able under Mohamara’s supervision when he smelt something odd. Grapes, oranges, and cherries, it was. When he turned to the source, there was a cathay Khajiit in orange robes on the bridge across Volskygge’s stream, walking as if he belonged there.  
  
“Welcome,” the shorter, pinker cat said as the cathay sat down with him to watch the kittens. Mohamara drank the last of his sap and milk drink then went back to watching Jode and Baishi attempt to wrestle each other. “I’m Mohamara, I run this place. And you?”  
  
“M’aiq is M’aiq,” said M’aiq. “And he has come to you for education.”  
  
“Ah, alright. Are you interested more in enchanting, Mysticism, or religious studies? Really, The Caller organizes the class schedules and…” He trailed off when he saw the blank look M’aiq gave him. There was something… off about the cathay.  
  
“Not M’aiq’s education, M’aiq knows everything.” The orange-robed Khajiit booped the shorter one on the nose. “Khajiit is here to teach Khajiit to be Khajiit, Khajiit understands?”  
  
Mohamara rubbed his nose where the cathay had booped him--the cherry smell was clearly from some sort of fur powder that he’d inhaled--and it _itched_. “And what exactly is involved in teaching me to be Khajiit?” Just a tiny bit of an edge crept into his voice as he spoke to M’aiq. “Is just being me not good enough?”  
  
M’aiq recoiled as if slapped, and actually rubbed the side of his face. Perhaps Mohamara actually _had_ slapped him with Mysticism? “M’aiq apologizes, did not mean to sound cruel. But you aren’t really yourself, Khajiit.”  
  
The more he looked at M’aiq, the more Mohamara’s unease grew. The cathay’s sympathetic bonds were… not. As he focused more on each bond and tried to figure it out, it seemed to slip away from his awareness. It was like he was a beginner, still trying to tell what a sympathetic bond felt like.  
  
Baishi accidentally knocked Jode onto Jone, and the bipedal kitten naturally clamped down on the alfiq’s tail. Mohamara moved in to resolve the problem, but M’aiq held a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Let little one show some cleverness. See how she gets out.”  
  
Sure enough, Jode waddled around and licked her brother’s nose. The bigger kitten giggled and released her tail without a fuss.  
  
The tojay watched the event, then squinted at M’aiq. “Why should I listen to anything you say?”  
  
The cathay shrugged. “M’aiq knows everything, tells some. Would like to tell some to Khajiit, but won’t make him listen.” The cathay’s tail twitched, and his whiskers drooped slightly. “But the little ones… they will grow up knowing themselves as Khajiit. They are the moons--how could they not? Does Khajiit want them to look at him and see a human with a cat’s handsome face?”  
  
“Qorach.” What had appeared to be a metal bandolier across Mohamara’s chest suddenly moved on its own. “If this guy isn’t on the up and up--eat him.” The tojay leaned forward to rest his elbows on his crossed legs, prime position to grab the kittens if necessary. “Alright, how did you know they’re the moons?”  
  
“Coming to this from a place of suspicion will only hamper progress, but M’aiq will accept nonetheless.” M’aiq reached inside his robe and retrieved a leather pouch. “The journey begins here, with this.” From within the pouch, he extracted a chunk of moon sugar about the size of Mohamara’s thumb. The sugar-rock shine with inner light--no doubt due to the moons being in such close proximity. “Moon sugar, from the moon sugar cane which grows only at night.”  
  
With a thought, Mohamara retrieved a pitcher of milk, a goblet, and a vial of sleeping tree sap from the kitchens and had them come to him carried by invisible hands. “I prefer my milk sweetened with this stuff, personally. But I’ve never had moon sugar--”  
  
M’aiq snatched the vial of sleeping tree sap and looked into the glittering purple liquid. “Not true. This one knows Ma’dran gave Khajiit some moon sugar with his wine in Solitude.”  
  
Suddenly Mohamara remembered. Solitude, months ago, when Ma’dran first bought Proudspire manor and threw a party to celebrate. He had drunk some spiced wine and seemed to go on a drunken bender. Qorach hissed from the Master’s growing rage. “I’m going to force-feed him a bell pepper for that. See how he likes it.”  
  
“M’aiq does not tell you these things for vengeance, but he is not Khajiit’s papa, cannot decide such matters.” The sugar rock and vial of sap were held up together side by side. “Does Khajiit see the link between these things with his special sight?”  
  
Eager to get the lesson started so it could be done, and he could go back to watching kittens play, Mohamara dove into the sympathetic bonds. The Moon Sugar showed him a colorful tojay he had never seen, slicing sugar cane at night, then boiling the sugar under the full moons and throwing strands of the sugar upon metal poles where it would dry and resemble hair. Other colorful tojay would collect the hair, and pat them into thick balls that resembled yarn from a distance, and when they were cool, strike the balls with a hammer to create the sugar rocks.  
  
From the sap, he saw the sleeping trees, with the sun shining overhead. The light went into the leaves and became sugar which the tree moved into its sap. Whereupon he saw Imperial soldiers collect it from spigots.  
  
“They both make things taste sweet,” Mohamara said at last.  
  
“Khajiit is being purposefully shallow,” M’aiq replied, surprisingly pleased. “Is good. Khajiit is acting catty. What else?”  
  
“What else is there?” Mohamara’s expression was blank while M’aiq seemed _hurt_.  
  
“Khajiit does not see?”  
  
“Are you going to keep answering my questions with other questions?”  
  
“Until he can see the moon in the sugar, questions will be the best way of teaching Khajiit, no?”  
  
Mohamara pointed at the cathay suddenly. “You came dangerously close to a declarative sentence there.” He began to suspect that this ‘M’aiq’ was an aspect of some Khajiit god. Perhaps the Khajiit version of Akatosh? Mohamara dropped his pointing in the face of no reaction from M’aiq and dove back into the sympathetic bonds.  
  
The images played out again, repeating once they completed. Nothing new appeared to him.  
  
“All I can do is guess that the sap is for the sun what moon sugar is for the moons,” the tojay shrugged.  
  
But M’aiq was all smiles. “That is correct! The sap is the twin of moon sugar caramel.” He put the sugar rock back in his pouch then passed the vial of sap back to Mohamara. “Is perhaps too late to teach Khajiit to love moon sugar as other Khajiit do, but he loves the moons very much so it is forgivable.” The cathay’s eyes darted over to Jone for a moment. “He will love big moon slightly less when he finds out little moon needs changing.”  
  
“Wha-- _Jode, stop doing that on your brother!_ ” Mohamara had to hastily clean up Jode’s mess and get Jone into a new onesie all while the ‘little moon’ screamed his head off. His prediction that the boy would be a crybaby had proved to be correct thus far.  
  
When he came back, M’aiq was permitting Baishi and Jode to drink from a goblet of milk at their leisure. Mohamara considered it a bit rude to reward the ‘big moon’ for using her brother like a litter box, but Jone was too young to understand rudeness. So when he sat down, Mohamara set the ‘little moon’ up for a rare solo cuddle session with his father.  
  
“Will you let him learn how to be tojay-raht, as he should?” M’aiq tilted his head at the tojay and, apparently, tojay-raht kitten. “From the Moon Bishops and Clan Mothers?”  
  
Mohamara held the infant Khajiit closer to his chest. “If they want to teach him anything, _they_ can come _here_. When he’s old enough.” Jone, ignorant of the staring match the adults participated in over him, snuggled up under Mohamara’s chin.  
  
M’aiq sighed. “Merria shines so brightly, you do not see that the Moons need special knowledge. Which Khajiit cannot have, for the same reason he holds ja’khajiit so close.”  
  
“You say they need special knowledge, but don’t ask about her.” Mohamara gestured to Jode, who waddled after swift Baishi once their drink was done. “Why?”  
  
“She will make the decision for herself. Is how the big moon always is--willful, not desiring approval from anyone.” The orange-robed cathay shrugged. “This one sees that Khajiit fears she will love him less--this is not the truth. But she is confident in Khajiit’s love, does not need constant reminders. The big moon will jump high, but always purr for Khajiit.” He sighed and looked at Jone, sleeping on Mohamara’s chest. “But is not true for the little moon. He is much too much like you, and will need to be taught better than to have a mind of gears and levers.”  
  
All amusement and tolerance for the situation in Mohamara had gone. He saw in M’aiq someone who would convince him to abandon his children for the sake of tradition. The way he had been abandoned. By Sheogorath and his _whore_ wife. Against his wishes, his heart began to hammer and boiling rage filled Mohamara’s veins.  
  
Meanwhile, in the mind of a madman, Sheogorath’s ears were burning. In response to this, he added a bit more water to the soup he was using pieces of his face for seasoning. His mouth floated by and sampled the soup. “Hmm, could use more parmesan. Pelly! Where did you put my parmesan cheese?!”  
  
“What in the flaming fields of the Deadlands is parmesan cheese?!”  
  
“Oh right, it hasn’t been invented yet. My bad!”  
  
Back in Volskygge, Qorach rewound himself into a mantle with Jone safely beneath. The kittens seemed not to perceive how close to an explosion Mohamara was, but M’aiq clearly saw. “If he went to learn from the Moon Bishops… would Khajiit love him less?”  
  
“No,” Mohamara snarled.  
  
“If he called for you, would you choose not to come?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“If he came to harm…?”  
  
“Then either I, his sister, or his other father would see the cause suffer and die.” That startled Mohamara a bit--how had he known what _Jode_ would do?  
  
M’aiq gestured to the abandoned vial of sleeping tree sap. “Twins mirror each other. As he is like you, she is like other father. And while the love they have is not the same--is still love. Where he goes, she will follow--and the reverse. She will be grown long before him, plenty of time to be a good big sister.” He clapped his hands. “But we stray from topic M’aiq want to share. As moon sugar caramel is like the sap--so will the completed sugar be like moon sugar. You are tojay--who alone can make the sugar. The first step to being Khajiit is to partake. All other lessons flow from that.”  
  
The rage that had suddenly come to life in Mohamara died out just as quickly. “How do you know these things? You say you know everything-- _how_?”  
  
M’aiq shrugged. “M’aiq knows everything because M’aiq is Khajiit, and Khajiit is Khajiit, and Khajiit knows everything.” He stood and patted down his robes from the dust on the floor. “Khajiit will make the sugar and will become Khajiit. Then we meet again--but Khajiit will not recognize M’aiq.”  
  
“I kind of have my plate full at the moment,” Mohamara grumbled. “Parenting, temples to build, curses to break, stuff like that.”  
  
“Then M’aiq will give Khajiit a hint to help.” All the mirth in the cathay’s voice drained away. “Seek out the Eye of Magnus, it will help Khajiit be who he needs to be. M’aiq is tired now, will be leaving.” He turned and started back down the path into Volskygge.  
  
“Wait--what in the Ashpit is the Eye of Magnus?” Already ideas whirled in Mohamara’s head--did the ‘eye’ refer to Meridia’s lost power when she abandoned the world late? Would she even approve him looking for such a thing?  
  
“M’aiq gave a hint already. A clever Khajiit will figure it out.”  
  
\--  
  
There were a plethora of things that Mohamara gave his attention to rather than solving the mystery of the Eye right away, or discovering how to make sugar from sleeping tree sap. According to Jo’leen and Adannna, Jode would soon be approaching the stage of her development where she would begin to learn a language.  
  
Neither of them seemed satisfied with Mohamara’s Tongues-granted grasp of ta’agra, sp the Khajiit language would have to be a second language for the big moon.  
  
Then there was the reconstruction of Meridia’s temple at Mount Kilkreath to plan. Stone quarries in Dragon Bridge and Solitude had been contacted about providing materials--as the general blueprint was easy for Mohamara to put to paper. He already knew how the temple would look, after all.  
  
Then there was the Yagraz Problem. Orthorn had zipped off to Apocrypha and come back appearing like he had gone through a six-month war campaign in an afternoon. He summarized his adventure thus: “So it turns out there are things even Hermaeus Mora doesn’t know, and pointing this out in his realm is a _poor decision_.”  
  
And Kipgolsik, when asked about the Yagraz Problem, seemed dumbfounded. Even though the Thu’um could change the very nature of things, he couldn’t wrap his mind around why Yagraz would _want_ to be not a Dragonborn. Any time the subject came up he wouldn’t be able to get around the question of ‘why’ and he would think himself in circles from the effort.  
  
On top of that was the approaching mage emigration to Winterhold. Really, that should have been Mohamara’s priority. But it wasn’t. There was something that only came around once a year, and it was an occasion he needed both the local Legion soldiers and his followers to get just right.  
  
On the eighteenth day of Frostfall, at a little past noon, Yagraz gro-Dushnikh got a looking glass request from her best friend. But when she opened it up, she didn’t see him at all. Instead, she saw the first throne room in Volskygge. On the one side of the throne were Mohamara’s Pink Coats, each with an instrument, and on the other were Legionnaires, Hadvar included, standing at attention. Between the two of them was a small impromptu podium.  
  
Mohamara stood there--he bowed to her, then turned around and held up a thin metal stick.  
  
“Short-stuff what in the actual fuc--”  
  
Before she could finish articulating her question, the tojay tapped rapidly on an unseen metal object, and the music began. It was a catchy tune, with frequent refrains built up around her name. It didn’t take her long to figure out where she’d heard it before--Mohamara had the musical portion as his ringtone for her.  
  
Rather than complain that it wasn’t the perfect time for a song, Yagraz turned her micro-slate sideways to adjust the picture to widescreen. Mohamara was doing the bulk of the singing, even with his back to her. The Legionnaires provided backup at certain key points. All in all, Yagraz found it a dorky thing to do, a ridiculous abuse of Mohamara’s power, and a smashing present.  
  
_”Who has… brains?!”_  
  
_”Like Yagraz!”_  
  
_”Entertains?!”_  
  
_”Like Yagraz!”_  
  
_”Who can inspire endless refrains like Yagraz?!”_  
  
A giant Khajiit woman Yagraz didn’t know, and Werac walked into the scene, each holding one of Mohamara’s kiddies and one end of a banner that read: ‘Happy Birthday, Yagraz!’ They walked out of the camera without stopping, though Yagraz saw that the cat-like one was getting pretty big.  
  
_”She uses weapons in all of her decorating….”_  
  
The Imperials drew their swords in a grandiose salute. _”Say it again!”_ Some Pink Coats mirrored the gesture with staves--where had they gotten the stuff to make magic staves? _”Who’s a ten out of ten?”_  
  
_”Who’s the super success? Don’t you know, can’t you guess? Ask her friends and her five hangers-on!”_ All this spectacle made Yagraz realize that for Mohamara, the time when they would do ridiculous things for each other’s birthdays was only a few months ago. But for her, it seemed a lifetime. She didn’t dislike the present, but it seemed so _cheesy_.  
  
_”There’s just one Orc around who’s got all of it down! **Yagraz!**_ ”  
  
After the finale, the assembled crowd struck a pose, then quickly devolved into individual birthday wishes.  
  
“You colony of frilly cupcakes,” Yagraz told the lot of them with cheer. “I’m going to come up north and there better be some cake, or I’ll kick every single one of your asses. Thanks a bunch, it made my day.”  
  
The crowd said their goodbyes while Mohamara approached where his slate was mounted to end the call. Once it was gone, Yagraz was back to work.  
  
“That was a really nice thing your friends did for you,” the dragon gurgled around Volendrung stuck in his mouth. Being so heavily spiked, the weapon was prone to get stuck in enemies and frequently required Yagraz to pry them off or use them as gory weapons in combat. With both wings broken, the dragon couldn’t simply fly away from how Yagraz had him stuck. “Nice enough to have you let me go?”  
  
Yagraz laughed, put her micro-slate away and then put both hands on the dwarven hammer. “No.” Then she used Volendrung as a lever to physically tear the dragon’s head off his neck.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know, yes, Meridia did pick up on that little rage explosion. But being angry at something is the first step to being able to move beyond it. She's sort of an expert.


	46. Diplomatic Immunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara goes to a party!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seriously, Falkreath is nothing but rocks and trees. I'm pretty sure that maple sugar is one of the few non-depressing things to have in that place.

  
\---  
**Chapter 46:** Diplomatic Immunity.  
  
The Pink Coats and Imperials had set up a sort of farm for the sleeping tree sap; partly to collect the useful narcotic substance, and partly to keep the new arrivals to the valley from chopping down the sleeping trees. They connected the taps in the trees by tubes and would bring in the sap collected each night.  
  
From there, it was actually Hadvar who took over the process of refining the sap. He, Mohamara, the Caller, and Orthorn spent two days--daylight hours--refining the sleeping tree sap into syrup. Per Hadvar’s orders, one of the requirements for the process was for everyone involved to wear an apron, an excessively tall chef’s hat, and some sort of disguise.  
  
“You see,” Hadvar explained with a false nose swollen up and red from excessive drinking while he wore eyeglass frames with no lenses. “During ancient times, people who made syrup ran the risk of offending the Spriggans. They wore these getups and disguises to confuse the Spriggans and keep them from remembering who was coming to tap their trees.”  
  
Orthorn, who had shoved two watermelons down his shirt for his disguise, nodded. “It makes sense. Spriggans don’t have good eyesight, and they’re not very intelligent.”  
  
The Caller, who wore several wigs on top of one another for her disguise, disagreed. “We should explain to the Spriggans what we’re doing. Our Lord is Life now, they shouldn’t have the grounds to object to what he does.”  
  
Mohamara shook his head. His disguise was a very crude attempt to make him look like a dog, with a fake snout extension, and false tail. “Spriggans answer to Kyne. She’s Nature, not just Life. So her orders outrank mine on that side.”  
  
“Don’t you mean Kynareth?” Hadvar’s question spoke for Orthorn and the Caller as well. “Kyne and Kynareth are the same person, right?”  
  
“Not… not really,” Mohamara observed the Falkreath man adjust the cooking sap slightly, and made mental notes for how to write instructions down later. “Kynareth was created by Alessia, she’s derived from Kyne. Kynareth is part of Kyne like a leaf is part of a tree. But the core identity is Kyne, warrior-woman, goddess of the Sky and Nature, widow of Shor. It happens with a bunch of deities, honestly. Like how Jhunal is called Julianos by Imperials.”  
  
“How do you know these things?” Orthorn asked, then quickly waved to some passing Nord children who found their clownish getups amusing.  
  
Mohamara adjusted his fake nose slightly. “Well, it’s sort of the same thing with my god--Meridia isn’t really her name, it’s Merid-Nunda. We call her something different because she wants to get past the time when she was tricked by Lorkhan into designing the world.” He leaned in and sniffed at the boiling sap, tempted by the cherry smell that started to mix in with the usual grape and oranges. “Magnus, Merria, Maria, Meridia, all just faces for the entity whose real name is Merid-Nunda.” He looked over to his followers after Hadvar slapped his hand away from reaching into the boiling proto-syrup. “I think I have a copy of Vivec’s book on my slate--I’ll let you guys read it. Helps with figuring out who is whom in the divine realms.”  
  
“Is that the one where they have a fling with Molag Bal and kills all their children?” Everyone turned to look at Orthorn, confounded. “I think I read bits and pieces of it, but never the whole thing.”  
  
“Orthorn you uncultured ass,” the Caller cuffed the taller high elf once she recovered. “You don’t talk about _pornography_ with children in earshot!”  
  
“Ow! What kind of porn have you been reading that involves killing children?! Ow!”  
  
\--  
  
Sleeping tree syrup, as it turned out, took the effects of sleeping tree sap and kicked the living annihilation shit out of them to make them more powerful. Where before the sap could serve as a potent anesthetic and sleep aid at the cost of some trippy dreams, sleeping tree syrup was a hallucinogenic paralytic. Mohamara had wanted to be the first to try it but was out-voted by his students. Traynda, Brenilin, and Adannna took up the mantle of testers. They each drank a thimble full and froze in place seconds later.  
  
When they were able to move, over six hours later, they found that the three of them had become living props--covered in nonsensical items and used as impromptu shelves. Each described visions that they had seen. Traynda saw the sun turn red and how everyone she had ever seen in her life began to sport fangs but otherwise go about their lives. Brenelin was hunted through Valenwood by giant vegetables that attempted to prosthelytize to her through song. And Adannna dreamt she was on a grand adventure to kill fiery heirs to either prolong the suffering of an entire world or let it finally die.  
  
Of course, Mohamara wanted to try some right away--despite Hadvar expressing an interest in turning the syrup into granulated sugar. “Every man in Falkreath Hold knows how to make maple sugar candy, I’m legitimately curious as to how the syrup will react.”  
  
Fortunately for Hadvar, and unfortunately for Mohamara, the decision was made for them. When Mohamara was about to drink some, the thimble was taken out of his hands by Marcurio’s sudden arrival--with Yagraz behind him. “Mm-mm, no hour long drug sessions tonight. You have a party to go to, remember?”  
  
Mohamara, in fact, didn’t remember. He didn’t remember at all and told them so. But when Yagraz showed him a missive she’d sent him telling him about the party, which had his replies, Mohamara realized what had gone wrong. He reached into his ear and pulled Sheogorath out by the Mad God’s own ears, and glowered at him.  
  
“Well,” Sheogorath defended himself. “I really wanted to see how that stuff would work on ya, boyo!”  
  
“Just for that,” Mohamara almost literally growled. “I’m going to have the babies babysat by their _other_ grandpa.” He ignored Sheogorath’s wailing about losing his opportunity to watch the grandbabies and snatched the party clothes that Marcurio held out to him. The pink cat stomped his way up to the second throne room, annoyed. “I expect sleeping tree sugar when I get back!”  
  
Marcurio considered the words of Mohamara while the cat was changing. “I’m not sure my father will care much for looking after babies. He’ll probably be drunk the whole time after I have to explain where they came from.”  
  
Yagraz shrugged. Sheogorath assuaged his lost babysitting powers by eating literally every scrap of cheese in Volskygge. When the tojay returned, he was dressed in soft blue, a fashion style meant to draw from Elsweyr with the billowing pants, tight-chested long tunics, and a shawl worn like a cape over one arm.  
  
“I feel beyond stupid,” he told Yagraz and Marcurio when he stepped into the main throne room with the kittens bound up in his shawl-cape. “This thing has sandals--sandals in Skyrim! Who _designed_ this?!”  
  
“The people at Radiant Raiment,” the Imperial said with ease. As the tojay passed, he leaned down and poked at Jode as Jone was still asleep. The alfiq snapped at his fingers, and the two started a game out of Marcurio poking her and her attempts to bite him. “So, the carriage is meeting us at a farm just outside Solitude to take you up to the Embassy.”  
  
“Wait,” the tojay in sky-blue turned to squint at Marcurio. “Where will you two be?”  
  
“I’m going to be killing a troll as a backup entrance,” Yagraz said with cheer and stamped Volendrung into the ground.  
  
“And I’ll be following behind you, invisible.” Marcurio pulled the stahlrim whistle that Mohamara had made for him and blew on it. He vanished from sight and Mohamara’s, admittedly weak for a Khajiit, scent tracking. “I’ll be walking on the air so no one notices me at all.”  
  
“So I’m going into a party at the Thalmor Embassy effectively on my own. I make no promises that I won’t curse anyone without the two of you reigning in my divine wrath, so you know.” He paused to induce Jode to release Macurio’s finger with a sudden kiss on her head.  
  
“Cheat!” She said her first and so-far only word. Mohamara knew its meaning from her sympathetic bonds, but otherwise, it sounded strongly like ‘keet’. He’d been properly shamed by Yagraz for poisoning his daughter with his adoration of Akaviri animation slang when he had called her up at four am to tell her the good news.  
  
“Yes, I did,” Mohamara agreed. “And if you want, grandpa can teach you better ways to cheat. Now, we’ve got places to be.” He easily stepped up onto the thin air as if going up a step, and wrapped the ‘cheat’-chirping alfiq tight in his shawl-cape. “Since we all have speed enhancements… the last one to Solitude pays for all the cheese Sheogorath ate.” And like that, the three of them bolted off in three colorful streaks.  
  
Hadvar, his fellow Legionnaires, and the Pink Coats were quiet for a long time until someone from the back spoke up. “Why didn’t he have us babysit the kittens? I wanted to pet the little one.”  
  
“Because we have work to be doing, such as building new houses, finishing that road, and making sugar.” Hadvar, absent Mohamara or his Orcish idol, returned to his position’s command attitude. “Get moving!”  
  
The race results went as such: Mohamara in first place, Yagraz in second, and Marcurio pulling up the rear. While Mohamara gloated, Marcurio and Yagraz bickered over the validity of _throwing Volendrung_ and being carried by the momentum as a means of travel.  
  
“It’s not actually racing, it’s clearly a form of jumping.”  
  
“It gets me from point A to B, so it counts.”  
  
“You built up way more momentum than any of us could compete with.”  
  
“Short-stuff didn’t have trouble keeping up, and winning.”  
  
“Because he stopped you with an invisible wall! Your nose is still bleeding!”  
  
“But he said a funny one-liner first, so it’s all good. Seriously, have you never raced before? ...Wait a minute, why are we so close to the Blue Palace?” Yagraz paused in her argument with Marcurio to examine the reconstructed Avenues district. The statues of women holding faceted orbs were just beginning to light up from the setting sun, and smaller such statues on people’s houses lit up their front doors.  
  
Marcurio looked flabbergasted by this development too. “Unless my father got himself a house here--not impossible, mind--we should have gone up to Castle Dour.”  
  
“I’m still mad at the General for that almost making me a slave thing, plus he drinks too much to babysit!” Mohamara called back to them while he skipped through the Avenues district. He saw some familiar faces and waved to them. But his warmest expressions were reserved for the residents of Proudspire Manor. Ma’dran’s caravan had moved on, and Ri’saad’s had come north to occupy the home in their place.  
  
The tojay showed off the kittens to every caravaneer who came by to greet them, and got many a laugh from Jode greeting them back with a ‘Cheat!’ Inside the house, they found Ri’saad, or possibly his biological son. The cathay man looked like Ri’saad, minus twenty years of graying fur and diminished physique; when they had found him, he was doing handstand pushups with his feet straight up in the air. After Mohamara took a moment to verify the cat’s identity with sympathetic bonds, he unwrapped the kittens to show them to the caravan leader.  
  
Jode, finally free of her father’s cape-shawl, lept onto Ri’saad’s arm and climbed up to his shoulder with many a ‘Cheat!’ Ri’saad gently sniffed at her when she got to his shoulder and licked her nose. Jone woke up for a moment when the cathay took him but went to sleep quickly as Ri’saad pressed the tojay-raht to his other shoulder, and into his mane.  
  
“Khajiit is honored to meet ja’khajiit’s ja’khajiit,” Ri’saad said, his voice demonstrably deeper. “But why you look so fancy?”  
  
“I’m going to meet with the Thalmor,” Mohamara told him, clearly sour. “And decided that the best person to watch these two would be their grandpa.”  
  
Were it not for the fact that he was an experienced businessman, a great-grandfather in his own right, and a veteran of many wars, Ri’saad might have begun to cry to hear such an honor bestowed on him. But he was those things, so he smiled in his catlike way and bowed. This allowed Jode to climb onto his head, and bite at his ears. “This one is honored beyond words. What are the names of ja’khajiit?”  
  
“Jode is biting your ear, and Jone is using you as a bed.” Mohamara leaned in while Ri’saad was still bowed. “A while back, you might have noticed the moons changed shape and color. They were dead, so I gave them a new life.”  
  
Ri’saad’s eyes went wide as he processed this but quickly recovered. “This one is honored to look after kittens for a little while.”  
  
“Sorry for dropping this on you, but Skooma Cat was involved in it being a surprise. Jode loves to play and wants to start on meat even though she isn’t ready for it. And Jone likes to be told stories, but he’s a huge crybaby so have some keys to jingle ready. Toodles!”  
  
When the human, Orc, and tojay had left, Ri’saad stood and lay the kittens on his bed to examine them. The kitten named for the big moon was growing into a tuxedo cat, with her fur rapidly darkening except at the paws, nose, belly, and tip of her tail. Her brother seemed to be the opposite, with his nose, paws, ears, and tail darkening while the rest stayed white. Absent anyone else to play with, Jode lept upon her brother to wake him up. “Cheat!”  
  
But all Jone did was cry at being woken up. Ri’saad had to step in and pick the tojay-raht back up to soothe him. He spoke to them in ta’agra, and once Jone ceased his bawling, set the infant down to start on a story. He opted for the epic of Rahjin, the god of thieves.  
  
\--  
  
Delphine eyed the child-sized Khajiit warily as he stepped into the carriage. He was clearly tojay--the dyed fur and short stature made that clear, but the false fangs threw her for a loop. How would the Thalmor react to such a character? While Yagraz and her human cohort stepped in, the Blade thought of how she would make this plan work.  
  
“I support you going at this from multiple angles, Dragonborn,” Delphine started. “But the Thalmor have rules about tojay Khajiit. You’re sure your friend’s position is strong enough where they can’t just snatch him?”  
  
“If it becomes necessary,” the Khajiit said, without an accent at all, “I know how to wake up Mount Kilkreath in a volcanic eruption that _we_ will survive, but the Thalmor won’t.”  
  
“Short-stuff’s… probably not joking there, Delphine,” the Dragonborn told her. The thought of someone having the power to rouse a long-dead volcano chilled Delphine. “Guys, this is Delphine. She’s helping me figure out the cause of the dragon attacks. Delphine, read them in.”  
  
The Breton woman looked the Imperial man up and down, but found dangerously little she could use to judge his trustworthiness. “We looked at the big picture for when the dragons showed up. Ulfric had just lost two thousand men at Hjaalmarch and woke up a vampire clan. They would have easily been able to overwhelm the surrounding Holds once they grew strong enough, except possibly Solitude. Then a dragon attacks, and suddenly Solitude is weakened.  
  
“The Empire’s advantage is thrown away by the necessary reconstruction, and if they hadn’t been stopped, the vampire threat would have been an excellent pretext for the Dominion to send in troops to Skyrim and strengthen their position in the northern provinces. The war would have kept going, and the Thalmor would have their own army on our doorstep.”  
  
“Someone’s jumping to conclusions,” the Imperial man said with an arched brow.  
  
“When dealing with the Thalmor, it’s safest to jump to whatever conclusion would give the Thalmor the most of what they want right away. They’re sneaky, but not patient.” Delphine met the man’s disbelieving look with an expression of absolute certainty.  
  
“If it’s any consolation, the Thalmor won’t last much longer,” the Khajiit told her offhand. That broke her staring contest with the Imperial right away. “I’m pretty sure the Elven Empire that shows up in the Fifth Era isn’t called the Aldmeri Dominion.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s called Applicedo,” the Dragonborn cut in. “Lasts from the fifth year of the Fifth Era to the nine hundredth year of the Eighth Era. A constitutional monarchy, and the first primarily Elven empire to rule the whole continent. The Thalmor don’t survive the chaos that comes from the Atmoran eruption.”  
  
“She paid more attention in history class,” the cat said in an aside to the Imperial.  
  
“I had to suffer through AP History for a year, so the information _better_ be useful.”  
  
“You two… know the future?” Delphine’s question got less of a reaction than she would have hoped, with both the cat and Orc shrugging her off.  
  
“Ancient history wasn’t really my thing, I was more into sociology,” said the cat.  
  
“And I know only a few bits about this time period because I did a paper about the surge in naval warfare that comes with the beginning of the Fifth Era.” The Dragonborn started to speak in a bizarre accent. “Y’arr, piratin’ be the best way to make a livin’ in the Fifth Era, though the job be mighty risky, arr.”  
  
“Maybe for you, but some of us want to avoid being eaten by whales.”  
  
Delphine decided that perhaps the life of a small town bartender was not so awful compared to this madness, and regretted her life decisions.  
  
\--  
  
The party was… decent. Dreadfully slow and dull compared to the clubs that Yagraz would sometimes drag Mohamara to, but enjoyable. He found he wasn’t among total strangers when he joined the guests, at least. Every Imperial-aligned Jarl was there, as well as others. Elisif had even shown up wearing the cloak Mohamara had gifted her, which became a topic of discussion among the nobles of Skyrim.  
  
“...and the effect never needs to be recharged. It’s made living with that draft in the Blue Palace so much more bearable,” Elisif gushed over the cloak while Idgrod the Younger examined it. “My dear friend here made it for me, I’m… sure you remember each other.”  
  
Mohamara stepped over to Elisif, with a glass of milk in his hand and looked up to the Morthal Jarl. Halfway through introducing Mohamara, Elisif remembered the problems Idgrod had with him, but there was no turning back.  
  
“Ah yes, you,” the dark-haired woman said with a slight air of bitterness. “Your enchantments for my guard’s weapons have proven strong. When your banishment is ended, we would have a use for you.” It was overall a stiff… but amicable declaration. Mohamara could feel the pain in her that reminded her that her mother was gone.  
  
“That won’t be necessary, Jarl Idgrod. I have students who are more than capable of serving your needs. Your steward may set up the arrangements with me, and I will dispatch them to your service right away.” He ended the statement with a bow.  
  
Though still bitter, he could sense relief within her sympathetic bonds. “That would be wonderful, thank you.”  
  
It would have been easy to stick close to Elisif and sit out the party, but the invisible Marcurio behind him used his sympathetic bonds to signal a need for a distraction. It seemed that the time had arrived for their sneaking to commence.  
  
The most obvious path to go was to get Jarl Igmund or Balgruuf mad, potentially at each other. But that ran the risk of getting innocent people killed by their Holds not working cohesively. Then there was a drunkard called Razelan, but he’d been too amused by Mohamara’s requests for milk to drink instead of the expensive wines Elenwen had procured. A third option revealed itself on further observation, however: General Seneca Tullius.  
  
Mohamara skillfully slid through the crowd to reach the General, talking with some Thalmor asshat by the name of ‘Ancano’ about Winterhold. The General seemed surprised that Mohamara had chosen to stand beside him, and greet him warmly.  
  
“Ah… Ancano, this is my future son-in-law, Mohamara Ahramani. Leading expert on enchanting and Mysticism in the entire Empire,” the General introduced Mohamara while his goblet was refilled.  
  
The hoodless Thalmor almost failed to sneer at the child-sized Khajiit. “Ah, so you’re the rogue tojay… I’ve heard about you from my colleagues. It is good that you have not exploited your freedom to flood the local caravans with moon sugar or we’d have to have _words_ , you and I.”  
  
Mohamara grinned. “I’m sure they’d be pleasant words if I was doing such a thing. But I’m not! So we’ll have to settle for passive aggressive words instead.” He jumped and tapped Tullius on the shoulder. “Speaking of which, I have pleasant news for you.” With his touch, he pulled on Tullius’ sympathetic bonds to make him want to desperately drink some wine.  
  
Sure enough, the General rolled his eyes and lifted his freshly filled goblet up to his mouth, then drank deep.  
  
“You see, a few months ago, Marcurio and I spent a _lovely_ evening together. And, to make a long story short, you’re a grandpa!”  
  
Tullius continued drinking for half a second, before what he’d heard clicked and the most violent, uncontrolled coughing fit Mohamara had ever seen began to ensue. Even the cold fish Ancano couldn’t help but try to slap Tullius’ back. Elisif and Elenwen rushed over to examine the cause of the ruckus. With all eyes on the General, Marcurio slipped away into the embassy and left Mohamara to deal with the mess.  
  
“What… did you and my son… _do_?!” General Seneca Tullius demanded once he could breathe again.  
  
Mohamara cooly sipped his milk while the General glared, and many a guest looked on. “I don’t think that would be a topic to discuss in polite company, sir. Content not suitable for all ages, you know.”  
  
Meanwhile, in Cheydinhal, in the Tullius house, a pleasant evening meal was being had by the Tullius women. For once, the sisters were getting along without their matron needing to intervene, which meant she could relax. But then a sudden awareness drove her to shatter the wine bottle she’d held. And while her daughters marveled at how strong she was to accomplish such a task, the Lady Tullius looked around at her daughters. “...My mother senses are tingling. It’s almost like… I’ve become a grandmother.”  
  
Everyone at the dinner table turned to look at Kim, one of the middle daughters, and a well-documented Dibella cultist. “Hey!” She said, offended by the implication. “I use protection!”  
  
Hours later, with midnight approaching, Mohamara waited in the carriage for his husband-to-be and best friend to drop out of invisibility so they could leave. When Yagraz and Marcurio finally appeared, they were almost literally soaking in blood.  
  
“As it turns out,” Yagraz said with a slight bit of cheer. “I figured out the Shout for controlling animals. And on a completely unrelated note, trolls can climb ladders if you telepathically tell them how.”  
  
Mohamara scooted away so that the blood would not seep into his clothes “Did you at least find what you were looking for?”  
  
Marcurio shook his head. “The Thalmor know nothing about the dragons’ return other than it was apparently predicted by a Blade that they’ve been hunting. After I get cleaned up, I’ll go to Riften to find out more about him.”  
  
“And I’ll inform Delphine that this whole operation was a bust, aside from a bunch of dead Thalmor.” Yagraz seemed incredibly pleased with herself. “A really good consolation prize, that.”  
  
“Well, I’m going to pick up the kids, then go to bed,” Mohamara replied. “And when I wake up, there better be some sugar so I can punch that M’aiq guy… girl… thing in the face for saying I’m not Khajiit enough.”  
  
They sat in silence while the carriage rolled down Mount Kilkreath, enjoying the midnight stars and the moons above. Until Marcurio spoke up again. “We should probably have killed that troll--it’s probably still killing people.”  
  
“Pff,” Yagraz almost-laughed. “Who gives a shit? They’re Thalmor.”  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, Adannna was a Warrior of Sunlight.


	47. Khajiit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara becomes more Khajiit, and gets his artifact!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm legitimately curious how many of you will be able to immediately know 'where' our catboy is.

  
\---  
 **Chapter 47:** Khajiit.  
  
‘Llorona shared great wisdom with the Three Wise Rainbow Women: Adannna, who was shaped like Llorona, Brenelin, who danced with fire, and Traynda, who would let no question go unasked.  
  
To Adannna, the wisdom of context was granted. Light is not always better than darkness, action is not always superior to inaction. One must look at how the small picture and big picture relate to each other--for they are connected intrinsically.  
  
To Brenelin, the wisdom of empathy was given. “How would you like it if someone came into your home and chastised you for the way you eat,” she asked. Do not take every opportunity to turn a scene into a sermon, do not levy criticism against that which causes no harm.  
  
To Traynda, the wisdom of fear was granted. Beauty could become ugliness, and what was may not always be. Cherish what is here, for it might be gone tomorrow. The World will steal all it can from you, but keep on living to spite it.’  
  
Galamir looked up from reading the latest contribution to the Book and eyed his fellow Friends who had written it. “... Why didn’t you just call yourselves the Three Wise Lesbians,” he asked.  
  
“The name was taken by a trio of seers in Black Marsh three hundred years ago,” Brenelin answered. “I think they were also a band?”  
  
“This one will not steal a title well deserved,” Adannna chimed in, with her arms crossed. “Is hard to find good band names in this day and age.”  
  
Galamir shrugged, closed the Book, and returned it to its pedestal. “Alright, so let’s get back to Deco practice. I really want to figure out this ‘elevator’ thing that the Master told us about.”  
  
\--  
  
Sleeping tree sugar smelled like M’aiq, Mohamara noted when the egg-shaped candies of pressed sugar were offered to him. Cherries, grapes, and oranges almost in the exact same ratios. The realization pissed him off. It pissed him off so much that he put off trying the candies until sundown the following day out of spite.  
  
But he couldn’t put it off forever, and with the last gasp of the sun’s light, Mohamara swallowed an egg of sleeping tree sugar whole. Even though he hadn’t let it dissolve in his mouth, the taste of grapes, oranges, cherries, and raw _sweetness_ was so strong he almost threw up from the intensity.  
  
But he didn’t. He suffered through nausea worse than any he’d experienced in his life, so bad that he couldn’t hold his eyes open from the strain not to vomit up his entire stomach. When he opened them again, he was not in Volskygge anymore.  
  
Mohamara found himself in an endless desert of white sand dunes, with no clouds in the sky, and the sun shining above. Though he had never been in this place before, he felt as though he had--familiar sights such as an orange slice taller than the highest mountain, a cluster of grapes equally as massive, and four distant mountains seemingly made of solid metal all gave him palpable deja-vu.  
  
He took a step, stumbled as the sand beneath him shifted, and rolled down a dune. Once he was at the base, covered in sand, he discovered that it wasn’t actually sand. In the effort of spitting out that which had gotten in his mouth, he discovered it to be granulated sugar. “A desert of sugar… I want to call it a dessert desert, but feel like I’ve already used that line.” Mohamara found himself distracted by an enormous crash in the distance. With scrabbling hands, he climbed back to the top of the dune and saw a sugar-dust cloud rising from the vicinity of the giant fruit.  
  
When it cleared, there were two cherries, bound to each other by the stem, resting in the sugar and towering over it. Mohamara looked through the sympathetic bonds to find out what this place was trying to tell him. They simplified his view, to basic colors. The orange and grapes became their base colors and grouped together form a disk made of one half of each: Sheogorath.  
  
Cherry red became a starburst pattern, one he knew by memory: Meridia. But neither force could influence the world except by their presence. The associations with them were stymied, blocked, blunted, banished--they could not enter here.  
  
 _Safe_ , the bonds said. _From them, from pain, from loneliness. A blank canvas._  
  
“But that’s a lie,” he told the bonds. The sun grew dim, and the everpresent warmth that had existed before was replaced with cold. “I’m alone here.” The sympathetic bonds moved on their own and pulled Mohamara’s mind into the sand. Like sonar, a wave of awareness dug through the sand and revealed many humanoid figures beneath the sand. Khajiit, sleeping with ease, their breath unimpeded by the sugar that buried them. “Why do they sleep?”  
  
He touched one with his bonds, and his mind was filled with fire and pain-- an alfiq, trapped, no way out. Why couldn’t anyone hear that he was stuck inside? The roof collapsed, and the pain and burning were over. Another, an ohmes, he touched. And from her, he felt pain splitting her apart. Surrounded by loved ones, a midwife who had helped her sister and mother. She was so tired and it hurt so much, that she felt she couldn’t go on. Cold crept into her limbs, and she faded away--too weak to fight anymore.  
  
“They’re all dead.” More and more deaths he saw as the bonds linked him to the sleeping Khajiit. It took him only a moment to remember his obligations and assumed a praying stance. “You are Dead, and the Dead should be Mourned. I Mourn you like you are Mine, for someone must.” Over and over again he said the Mourner’s Chant for the sleeping Khajiit buried in the sugar sands. After so many hundreds of times, he realized he’d changed the words from seeing through the eyes of so many. “You are Dead, and the Dead should be Mourned. Khajiit Mourns, for you are His, and He must.”  
  
When did he start crying? He couldn’t recall. Mohamara’s crying had to have gone on a long time, for when he glanced to where they had fallen, a lake had formed in the dunes. The cold that had come with the sun’s light fading reversed, and light returned. Around the edges of the lake, the sand was dissolved and the Khajiit buried within were laid bare to the sun and tears. They seemed to stir as if waking up while Mohamara watched. But he couldn’t tell for sure, as the vision rapidly came to its end.  
  
He woke up, and found himself in his sleeping chest, with the kittens on his physical chest. The lid was open, and Jo’leen, Orthorn, and Hadvar were carefully trying to lift Jode up out of Mohamara’s embrace--presumably for her feeding. They froze when they saw that the tojay was awake, and watching them.  
  
“Khajiit isn’t going to stop you from doing your job,” he grumbled and moved his arm so that they could extract Jode. Once done, he sat up and handed Jone over to Jo’leen, then hopped out of the chest. “This one feels sick, will take breakfast alone so as not to throw up on anyone.”  
  
He didn’t quite grasp what he was saying, or the odd looks on the faces of the tall-legs as he got ready for his morning bath.  
  
“At least I didn’t have to let him bite me this time,” Orthorn said, relieved, and took off all nine rings of regeneration he’d put on in anticipation.  
  
\--  
  
“Khajiit is not suddenly a freakshow for the Orc to gawk at,” Mohamara grumbled to Yagraz during a looking glass session later on that day. He sprinkled the pork that was his evening meal with sleeping tree sugar and set the slate up to stand on its own.  
  
“Malacath’s gigantic glutes, you even have a Khajiit _accent_ now,” Yagraz told him while she too enjoyed a meal. Lucia waved to Mohamara while she served soup to go with her barbecue chicken. “What happened to your eye?”  
  
Mohamara tapped the large, colorful cloth wrapped around his head and covering his right eye. “Khajiit got violent while high on sugar. Damaged his eye, needed to be removed. Became this thing once out.” He held up a golden chain, where a red orb hung. There was gold wrapped around the former eye, resembling feathers sweeping off to one side. “Khajiit guesses he has his artifact now?”  
  
“Oooh, what’s it do?”  
  
“Ashpit if Mohamara knows, he doesn’t even know why he suddenly cannot use proper grammar.”  
  
“Well, slick is going to be mighty pissed off that you lost another piece of yourself. I think he has this thing with amputations and such.” Yagraz paused to take a spoonful of soup. “Mm, Lucy this is divine.”  
  
“Thanks, Mama,” the Imperial girl said with a shy grin.  
  
“Momamama!” Jode made her presence known by leaping up onto Mohamara’s table. She rubbed her head into his hand, which of course prompted Mohamara to shower her with kisses and pettings before she tried for his pork.  
  
“Oh my gosh, is that my cousin?” Lucia’s face suddenly occupied the whole of Yagraz’s side of the call. “She’s so _cute_!”  
  
“Say hello to cousin Lucy, and you can have some pork,” Mohamara told his naughty daughter as he guided her away from his meal.  
  
“Woosee!” The kitten headbutted the slate, then looked to her father to keep his promise. A bite-sized morsel of pig meat was extracted from the tojay’s meal and held out for the kitten to chew upon. Her teeth still weren’t developed enough to eat the meat, but she could taste and enjoy Brenelin’s superb cooking.  
  
“Khajiit wonders if he’d be less angry if he gave him his eye as a gift.” Mohmamara paused in the middle of eating some pork of his own to scowl. “Khajiit also dislikes excessive pronoun use with this bizarre manner of speaking.”  
  
“Makes you sound like an actual Khajiit, you know,” Yagraz commented. She poured herself a tall glass of mead and chilled it with one word from the Frost Breath Shout.  
  
“Khajiit has always been Khajiit, is not a different Khajiit now since vivid hallucinations.” His spiteful pout was met with Yagraz giving him a ‘really?’ expression. “Alright, this one admits crying a lake of tears for dead Khajiit, and saying Mourner’s Chant for them make him feel slightly different.”  
  
“What’s Meridia think about all this?”  
  
As if he’d been a popped balloon, Mohamara deflated. The only effort he put into anything for a minute afterward was to keep Jode from stealing more pork since she’d chewed the flavor out of what he’d given her. “Merria has not responded to Khajiit’s prayers. Even use of beacon does not get a response. He fears she is even more upset with him.”  
  
Meanwhile, in Moonshadow, a meeting between mother and daughter took place. Meridia took the shape of a Colovian woman in a prismatic dress, while Azura took the shape of a matronly Dunmer woman. The Mother of the Rose stood away from the silver table where creatia food was laid out by her servants to feed the Daedras of Day and Twilight. She parted the curtains that looked out onto her realm--impossibly beautiful, even by Daedric standards.  
  
The faux-’older’ woman sniffed disdainfully at some displeasing part of the horizon and adjusted it by her will alone. “First you marry Jyggalag’s punishment, then keep to the marriage after he became a mortal-turned-god, and now you hide a grandchild actually worth my investment from me for so long. Were I not ill, I would show you how displeased I am with you, daughter.”  
  
Meridia nodded and sipped her tea. “I would deserve it for how I have acted in the past. My… lack of parenting has ostracized my daughters from me and maimed my son. I’ve shamed you, and my sisters.”  
  
“Hmph.” Azura let the drapes go and carefully walked to the table. It was unlike Meridia to admit fault--indeed, up until recently, it was outside the realm of possibility. She suspected Sheogorath’s involvement, for he held dominion over the impossible. “Good that you admit it. You can begin to correct your mistakes, and bring your brood to heel.” Azura sat, and sipped her tea as Meridia had.  
  
The Daedra of Twilight looked on her daughter and saw something beautiful inside that she had not seen before in a Daedra of her line. Regret. It was one of the most beautiful things mortals had ever begotten, and it was something she herself could never experience. It inspired in her the need to reach out and comfort her daughter despite how terribly she had failed.  
  
“Do any of them hate you?”  
  
“No,” Meridia sighed. “And I don’t know why.”  
  
“Then there is still time to show them the love you should have from the beginning.” She held Meridia’s hand, as she had not done since Merid-Nunda admitted that Lorkhan had tricked her, as Azura said he would. “Your son is… a mess. There is no other way to describe the wreck you’ve made out of him. And he doesn’t even know you as his mother.” The aged Dunmer woman tilted her head back, considering. “Perhaps he ought not to know.”  
  
Meridia recoiled as if struck with a whip. But Azura held her hand tight. “He is starved for love, for a family. Nocturnal, Clavicus Vile, and… Malacath have all told me how bizarre it is for the boy to just accept them into his heart once he found out they are family.”  
  
“... Daughter mine, let me share with you something that your sister taught me, and tried to teach your son.” Azura released Meridia’s hand and clasped her own. “Even lies can be beautiful.”  
  
Back in Volskygge, Mohamara had finished the evening meal and was bathing with the rest of the settlement in the mountain stream. The excavation to have a portion of the stream attached to aqueducts for the settlement’s use hadn’t been completed yet so they used the stream for bathing Nord civilians struggled with the concept of communal baths, but Imperials, Forsworn, and the Pink Coats all had prolonged experience so there was no shortage of people to help with the awkwardness.  
  
At least until the tojay’s amulet lit up with blinding light. “Mohamara Ahramani, hear my word and obey,” the voice of Meridia declared with resounding authority.  
  
Of course, Mohamara was not listening, but desperately trying to get out of the bathing area while the ‘normal’ people panicked over talking jewelry. So he darted rapidly to the second throne room to take the Daedric call. “Um, Khajiit is sorry, Lady--”  
  
“You are not to call me that anymore. I am not your ‘Lady’, I am not your liege lord, your superior, none of those things.”  
  
A pit of despair began to grow in Mohamara’s chest. Though he couldn’t see it, a nearby vase of flowers began to rapidly wither and die.  
  
“Since Sheogorath has been such a sub-par parental figure for you, and you are rapidly growing in power of your own--I will step up to fill the void.” Meridia’s tone did not shift from her imperious normal means of speaking, but the light from within the amulet became less harsh the more she talked. “You will call me ‘Mother’, and I will act as a parent should. You and your descendants will be counted among my family, from this day until the end of days.”  
  
The despair in Mohamara began to dissipate, replaced with something worse: Hope. But he felt compelled to protest such an honor. “This one… this honor is too high for him, he is just-just… Mohamara, and not important enough to be related to _you_. You’re making a mistake, believe Khajiit--”  
  
Suddenly, the amulet shone harshly once more. And when Meridia spoke again, it was with a terrible shout that rattled the very mountain. **”Who made all things? Who made the meek, the mighty, the humble, and the proud? Did not I?! Now obey!”**  
  
Like it was a burning coal, Mohamara released the morpholith and covered his ears from the volume of Meridia’s reprisal.  
  
After her rage subsided, the amulet’s glow became gentle again. “It is not for you to say who is worthy of being my family. That is my decision. And I have decided to include you. If you still wish not--I will respect your wish, but not when it is rooted in whether or not you deserve this gift.”  
  
It was a long time before Mohamara was brave enough to accept that 1) he wasn’t dreaming, 2) Meridia wasn’t the sort to bait her followers into traps, and 3) he desperately wanted what was being offered. “Okay… Mother.” It felt _bizarre_ to use that word, Mohamara found. Until Sheogorath had gotten involved in his life, the concept of parents had been an academic idea--he’d certainly never lasted long enough with any foster family to reach that point.  
  
“As you are now my son, I free you from the constraints of my worship. Love me in whatever way you wish, complete my temple if it pleases you to do so. Take the love I have for you, and make from it armor that nothing in the world can pierce. And teach your children to do the same with your love for them. Goodbye, child mine.” The amulet’s warm light faded away into its usual ethereal glow, and Mohamara was alone.  
  
Meridia was his adoptive mom, the tojay thought to himself. He thought it repeatedly, to the point where he didn’t notice his students ascend the stairs to investigate the shouting, see him nude, then trip over each other to go back. On auto-pilot, he snatched them from the air as they tumbled and set them on their feet at the base of the stairs, and pulled the curtains to the throne room through Mysticism.  
  
He was still in shock, processing the idea of having a maternal figure to put a face to, to have a name for. How would Sheogorath react? Would Meridia want to be a part of Jode and Jone’s lives? Would Molag Bal suddenly start attacking his valley for being Meridia’s kin?  
  
His thoughts were interrupted by his slate lighting up and playing a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OdAVaTCQIzM)… an incoming call? But it wasn’t from someone he knew. When he picked up the slate, the identification was a picture of a green dragon--with four legs, and the name: NASTYBOI. When he answered, Mohamara had a feeling of whom was calling, and decided to risk offending a Prince potentially. “Uncle Peryite?”  
  
The voice on the other line laughed like a hissing snake. “It is has been a long time since I heard my name spoken without contempt. Nephew, I’ve heard from Vile, Vivec, and Nocturnal that you are willing to help the family with our problems?”  
  
“Of course, Uncle.”  
  
“Then I would ask you help me deal with a… follower of mine who’s lost his way.”  
\--  
  
“So, uh. Which one of us is going to tell him?”  
  
The five disciples of Mohamara and the Caller stood shoulder to shoulder in a circle around the artifact: The Eye of Mohamara. In the next room was Marcurio, attempting to teach Jode how to say his name. And they had been tasked with presenting the Eye to Marcurio and relaying his reaction to the Master once he returned from the Reach.  
  
“One, two, three, not it,” Orthorn declared while the others debated intellectually. This was met with five people calling him a cheater and decrying that he had acted in such a childish manner. “You’re just mad that none of you thought of it first.”  
  
The truth of his words was evident in their disgusted expressions. “Let’s rehearse what we need to tell him,” Galamir said, as he held the Eye by its chain. “Hello, Lord Marcurio, your betrothed got incredibly violent after we gave him an experimental substance and clawed out his eye--here it is.”  
  
“That,” Traynda, replied as if struck by inspiration, “might just be… the way to get us all killed!” The Redguard woman’s tone suddenly became accusatory and enraged. “The Master _warned_ us about his temper, and you want to just tell him bluntly what happened?!”  
  
“Do we need to tell him where it came from at all?” Adannna said with a hand on her chin. “We could tell him it is a gift from the Master--nothing more.”  
  
“Except he would ask the Master where it came from,” the Caller commented. “And then when he found out _we knew_ but didn’t tell him, what do you think his reaction would be?”  
  
As one, they turned to look at the distant Imperial, who wove a cat’s cradle of lightning to amuse baby Jone. With a few more lightning ‘threads’, and some clever fingers, he morphed it into a face that began to ‘talk’ to the babe.  
  
“I heard he once turned some Dunmer woman into a bar of soap for kidnapping the Master,” said Galamir.  
  
“I heard he feeds people to his pet dragon for speaking to his enemies,” said Brenelin.  
  
“I heard he has the power to summon a hail of arrows from nowhere,” said Traynda.  
  
Marcurio bent over and produced a small Dwemer metal box which he placed before Jode. After he fiddled with it, it was revealed to be a music box. The alfiq kitten didn’t care about it at first, but her mind changed when Marcurio picked her up and started to dance with her to the [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u4n4q0xxNx4).  
  
“He could murder every one of us without a problem,” the Caller said with horror.  
  
Faintly they could hear the kitten calling the Master’s soon-to-be husband ‘Mario’, and even though it was cute as all get out, the idea of someone so powerful, so _dangerous_ having such a nickname disturbed the comparatively normal people.  
  
Not Orthorn, however. He was off the hook for Marcurio’s wrath--and mostly stayed around to see how his friends worked out the problem.  
  
“What does the item even do?” Galamir asked, and shook it by the chain. “Maybe it has some protective power that we can make use of.”  
  
“Well, when I used it made me feel like I could do anything,” Orthorn commented. “And made this pop out of my chest.” He produced a shining red spherical crystal from his robes, inside of which was an indistinct metallic animal--the crystal was too foggy to see clearly. “Near as I can tell, it’s a morpholith like the Master’s amulet. But it doesn’t charge nearly as fast.”  
  
“What’s this about morpholiths?”  
  
All six of the friends immediately jumped, screamed, spasmed, froze, prayed for deliverance, and nearly fainted, depending on which friend was watched, at the sudden arrival of Marcurio and the kittens to the conversation.  
  
Immediately, the Imperial spied the crystal Orthorn had in his hand, and then the Eye. “Oh, magical artifacts. Mohamara’s latest work?”  
  
“Well… this is, yes,” Galamir said in explanation. “Apparently one of the effects is it creates… these?” He pointed to the red crystal. “Though they’re not as efficient as the Master’s.”  
  
“Not surprising, Mohamara’s draws from the beacon which draws from Meridia. My guess would be that these draw from Mohamara, and he’s not nearly as powerful as Meridia.” The thief-mage leaned in to look at the crystal, then the Eye. “Hmm, I can’t tell what planar alignment that morpholith has. _This_ definitely seems artifact-tier work, though.”  
  
“The Master wished you to have it,” Adannna said at last. “It is called the Eye of Mohamara.”  
  
Galamir passed the Eye over to Marcurio who was visibly confused. Jone, sensing something shiny that made jingling sounds, immediately started crying so that it would be presented to him. Marcurio had no choice but to comply. “Wait a minute,” he said after Jone calmed down. “Is this his _actual_ eye?”  
  
But the friends had wisely chosen to run away the moment Marcurio had taken his eyes off them.  
“Mario!” Jode, naturally, cut through the Imperial’s budding rage with her adorable mispronunciation of his name. She sniffed at the Eye as Jone gummed it, then got it stuck on his fang. “Momamama!”  
  
“Mario is going to beat Momamama’s ass,” he told the kittens while he got the artifact unstuck from Jone. “Metaphorically. Verbally. All kinds of -lly’s except literally.”  
  
\---  
If you're curious, the Three Wise Lesbians were Tamriel's first true pop group, though their music never gained much popularity outside Black Marsh and Morrowind. The concept behind them comes from [this ](http://jadenvargen.tumblr.com/post/174444549960/i-made-this-for-twitter-ages-ago-but-i-never)tumblr art.

 

 


	48. A little help from my Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Friends of Llorona go on a trip!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't actually dig the song the chapter is named after as much as some of the other Beetles music, so you know. Nowhere Man is my absolute fave.

  
\---

**Chapter 48:**  A little help from my Friends.

In the absence of the Master, the Pink Coats continued their duties. They worked at the Master’s unique form of enchanting and pondered the meaning of kindness as a metaphysical concept. With the Legion and the people who had come to live in the eternal spring valley, progress was quick on developing a settlement at the base of Volskygge. And though they had been told to put other things first in priority, they continued to do small things to progress on the Master’s house.

Then an unknown Orc came to Volskygge valley. He hadn’t come to speak to the Master, or to Marcurio who watched the children in his stead. The Orc had come to ask for help from the Friends of Maria.

“And what, pray tell, would you ask of the Friends of Maria?” 

The Orc’s eyes went wide at the sudden aggression from the Caller, who spoke for the Pink Coats in the absence of the Master. It seemed that all the softening she had done as she learned from the Master had been undone, and she was the harsh master mage they had originally studied under.

“I met one of her Friends in Hjaalmarch, he helped deal with the vampires,” responded the Orc. “So I asked around. People say Maria lives… or at least lived on Mount Kilkreath. Well, I don’t think she’s a fucking  _Thalmor_  so I started looking around.” He shrugged and met the Caller’s gaze without blinking. “There are vampires what need killing, and the Friends of Maria seem to know their stuff about doing it. Are you them, or not?”

“... Our Master is a Friend of Maria, who  _lives_  on Mount Kilkreath. But he isn’t here. We are the Friends of Llorona, who dwells in Volskygge Valley.” The Caller swept her arm up to indicate the Pink Coats who loitered about the initial throne room in Volskygge. In so doing, she highlighted the women painting each other’s nails, the men painting each other’s nails, one man clipping his nose hairs, and a woman asking her friend to inspect a boil on her back. Hastily, the Caller directed their guest’s attention back to her. “You need help slaying vampires, we can provide that help.”

“Good. I’m Durak, with the Dawnguard.” He, respectfully, did not spend too long staring at the  _most certainly not just a boil_  growing out of the woman’s back and focused on the Caller. “How many people can you spare?”

“We have five combat-trained Friends, ready to go. They’re all equipped to do enchanting work in the field, so they can assist you in that regard as well.” The Caller leaned in and whispered to Durak in an impressive attempt to intimidate him. “And if this is some sort of trap--I will explode your head.”

“Heh. I get worse than that from Isran, you’ll have to up your game.”

The Caller tilted her head, then surged forward. With strength that was in no way implied in her waify figure, the picked Durak up physically and slammed him into the ground. “I’m a master-level Restoration mage. If this is some sort of trap, I will find you and explode your head  _with my bare hands_. How’s that?”

Durak coughed and grinned with some blood on his teeth. “Better. Still not as good as Isran, but way better than before.”

\--

It took the six of them weeks to reach the Rift. They were certain that the Master had already returned and started on his way to Winterhold by the time they crossed into Eastmarch. Ice still blocked the way to and from Whiterun and Eastmarch, as the snow from the peak of the Throat of the World could not melt. That which had come from further down the mountain was perfectly mundane, but the peak’s snow had to be moved around rather than set on fire.

From their proximity to the Eye of Mohamara, each of them had received a spherical morpholith to fuel their own enchanting work. Galamir’s was brilliant yellow, while Brenelin, Traynda, and Adannna had blue, black, and white respectively. None of them could see clearly the animal held in suspension within, but they trusted it would be clear in time.

Their days were spent walking, learning from Durak the state of Skyrim’s vampire problem, and assisting strangers on the road. In Darkwater Crossing, Galamir saved an Argonian man from wretched Falmer that had been lurking in a nearby Nordic barrow.

Galamir would have liked it if the attack on the Argonian man hadn’t tipped off said Argonian that Galamir had been watching him swim around. Which the other four Pink Coats teased him about for days afterward.

This was the first recorded instance of kinkshaming among the Friends of Llorona. Recorded because Orthorn had brought the Book with him to chronicle their work with the Dawnguard in his canticle. It was not even known as kinkshaming at the time--as that word would not be developed until the Twentieth Era. But it happened all the same.

Dayspring Canyon could only be accessed by a single pass near the border to Cyrodiil, and when they entered there to see Fort Dawnguard, the Pink Coats began to bounce ideas off each other for enchantments they could work into the Fort.

“The outer walls are strong, we can always make them stronger and distribute hits more evenly,” Traynda babbled while they walked through the canyon.

“The physical defenses are fine,” Adannna replied. “What we should set up are magical ones. Acid-proof the walls create a barrier against the elements, stuff like that.”

“How about we wait to talk to this Isran character before we decide what the Fort needs?” Brenelin put forth. Both the other women gave her dirty looks for her input, but the Bosmer remained strong. “For all we know, they could already have those things and just haven’t empowered them yet.”

Up the canyon to the Fort they walked. And they met there a Redguard man, Isran, who consulted with a Vigilant of Stendarr. None of the Friends dared speak a word, for they realized their peril by being in the presence of a Vigilant. But the man was beside himself with grief--the seat of their order had been attacked, their leaders killed and their members scattered.

Even though it was not for them to speak, they chose to speak up. “S’rendarr will make a good home for them in the beyond.” “We can create a memorial for them if you wish.” “All that can be done to see their spirits put to rest, we’ll do.” “That sucks, man.” “Would punching me in the face help?”

Orthorn’s request threw the mutton-chopped Nord man for a loop more than the words of the others. Even Isran, with his implacable expression, seemed disturbed by the willingly offered violence.

“You folks the Friends of Maria I asked for?” Isran, a surprisingly short but stocky man who favored a runed warhammer, looked over the Pink Coats with impassive eyes. “You’re… pinker, than I expected.”

“Friends of--” The Nord, Tolan, whirled on Isran and pointed at the man accusingly. “You would accept the help of Daedra worshippers?!”

“I would accept Meridia coming to Skyrim herself if she would kill every vampire, Tolan.” The Dawnguard leader shrugged. “She’s a good ally to have against undead.”

“Um,” Galamir cut in with a raised hand. “We’re not technically Friends of Maria--we’re the Friends of Llorona, who is allied with Maria.”

“Llorona--another Daedra, I suspect. Perhaps Azura, or Mephala.” Tolan pulled at his receding hair. “ _Daedra_ , Isran?! Those monsters?!”

“Meridia doesn’t accept allies that aren’t in near lock-step with her ideology. Next best thing, I suppose.” Isran ignored Tolan’s attempts to speak ‘sense’ and walked up to the five Friends. “So, what do you know about killing Vampires?” Whereupon, the Friends demonstrated the depth and breadth of Restoration magic that the Caller had taught them before Mohamara had been summoned. “Sunlight spells are a good start, I suppose. Now, Tolan tells me there’s this place the vampires are hot for--stupid-empty something or other.”

“Dimhollow Crypt,” Tolan corrected and pulled on his face. “And you’re not  _seriously_  going to send  _Daedra_  worshippers off to--”

“Okay, enough is enough.” Orthorn walked past Isran and stood before Tolan. “We’re not Daedra worshippers, Llorona isn’t an extra-planar entity. At least, not yet. And even if we were--you know nothing about us other than our religion is different from yours. We don’t want vampires to flood the world any more than a normal person, and we’re here to help.” The Altmer, the tallest man in the room, looked down at the Nord like he was a misbehaving child. “Last I looked, this is a big fort with hardly anyone inside it--so anyone who wants to help and isn’t a vampire in disguise is welcome, right?” He turned to Isran for clarification.

Isran’s expression remained stony, but he nodded. “We’ve lost too many people to the damn war to be picky. Tolan, if you’re done protesting the methods I use, perhaps you could go with them to make sure nothing Daedric happens?”

Tolan, chastised and angry, agreed. When the Daedra worshippers inevitably revealed themselves, he would be there to put a hammer in their skulls. All the fear and humility he’d had in the wake of the vampire attacks was forgotten. He was a Vigilant of Stendarr, and would not suffer Daedra worshippers to live.

Except no one would be surprised by that, as Tolan’s facial adventure as he thought these thoughts tipped his hand completely.

\--

The path to Dimhallow Crypt would take them weeks more--very nearly to the new year if they went on foot all the way. So instead, they opted to go north to Windhelm and take a ship to Dawnstar. The trick was to get to Windhelm in the first place, however.

Their first obstacle was a giant fighting a dragon, near the corpse of a badly burned mammoth. It was not difficult to guess who was in the wrong. Adannna and Brenelin stayed in the back, hurling long-distance spells at the dragon as it Shouted upon the giant. Galamir and Traynda went in close and showered the giant with spells to boost its power and heal the wounds that had he had suffered.

And Orthorn, the madman, running jumped from the giant to land upon the dragon’s back. The dragon was surprised by this, the giant was surprised by this, his friends were surprised by this. And that surprise let Orthorn chain lightning the dragon until it couldn’t muster the strength to Shout anymore.

Tolan, his mutton-chops bristling with outrage, refused to be out-done by a Daedra worshipper and did the same as Orthorn had done when the dragon tried to swoop attack the giant. He used the pick side of his steel warhammer to secure himself on the dragon while he climbed up--refusing the hand offered by Orthorn.

The two of them gave the dragon what-for as it flew, Orthorn with electric magic, and Tolan with hammer blows. This continued until the beast was driven from the sky, and dug a ditch with its crash landing. It reared up once on the ground and shook the mortals from its back. The Friends and the Vigilant readied themselves for a brawl--and then the giant, empowered with mighty Restoration spells, struck the dragon so hard it vanished into the air from the force of the impact.

Even the giant was surprised by its strength, and all those assembled watched in awe as the dragon was propelled through the air and off over the horizon.

Meanwhile, in a section of the ocean between Tamriel and Atmora, a pod of whales despaired. Their prey, long serpentine kin of dragons, had migrated sooner that year than they had anticipated--which meant they would go hungry until they could find one again. Or so they thought until a bizarre animal like a plucked bird struck the water’s surface and immediately began to sink. It was stunned, but not yet dead. And since it was clearly not meant for the water, the whales could take their time and find the most savory portions of the creature.

Tolan couldn’t understand why the Pink Coats mourned for the slain mammoth alongside the giant after the dragon was sent flying. But he couldn’t deny that the giant itself was appreciative of their help and their empathy. The mammoth cheese the giant gave them for their efforts proved invaluable as game was otherwise hard to locate in the volcanically active zones of Eastmarch. It sustained them all the way to Kynesgrove--a tent village built around a mine and tavern.

The Vigilant watched, in bizarre fascination, as the Daedra worshippers stopped their progress to spend a night with the people of Kynesgrove and provide free enchantment work through strange colorful spheres. Every time he saw one of the Friends pull one out, it shone brighter and the figure within was clearer to see--a sabre cat crafted of metal instead of flesh. The Friends wove warmth into blankets, water-resistance into boots, strength into picks, and for the Dunmer mage who helped to keep the mines safe--over twenty towels that were always cold as snow to the touch.

He watched them pull threads of light the same color as their crystals from the seemingly infinite soul gems and weave them into the items like seamstresses. While they accepted whatever the people of Kynesgrove wished to give them, the Friends always made clear that the items were meant as gifts.

“Llorona has commanded us to make the world better,” Traynda said to Tolan when he asked. “To fill the world from top to bottom with joy, and to take every opportunity to be kind to those in need.”

But it was a lie, Tolan told himself. It had to be.  _It had to be._  ‘Llorona’ was clearly a Daedra, and Daedra  _by definition_  were incapable of caring for mortal life. So he watched for any sign that the items they had created would exact some awful price from the locals. All night.

Instead of finding what he looked for, he found himself being carried on a stretcher by Galamir and Traynda as the Friends continued on the road northward. They insisted he get some sleep as he had stayed up far too late. Tolan could only lay there, in slightly greater comfort than he was accustomed to, and seethe.

“Are you going to kill vampires with kindness,” he finally asked them as Windhelm drew into view.

“We will speak the Mourner’s Chant for them, and put a stop to their suffering.” Galamir looked distant as he spoke. “They are victims of Molag Bal, twisted up and made into monsters. But kindness is not weakness--we will put a stop to them, no matter what.” The Dunmer’s red eyes met Tolan’s, and the Nord saw in them steel as strong and sharp as any Nord sword. “A proper servant of the god of mercy would know that.”

Tolan asked no more questions for the rest of the day.

\--

Their progress was halted in Windhelm, where they discovered no ships were permitted to sail until the Jarl approved it. And the Friends deemed it unlikely that the Jarl would allow foreigners to Skyrim the chance to sail away--it was always safe to bet on Nords being petty. So they had to make themselves enough of a nuisance to convince Ulfric to send them off. The best way they found to do that was to be  _incredibly_  helpful for the people of Windhelm--particularly those Ulfric didn’t want to be helped.

When a former Stormcloak and a Nord layabout made a spectacle of themselves by implying a plethora of threats toward a Dunmer woman, they suddenly found the lone Dunmer merchant backed up by five weirdos in pink coats and a Vigilant of Stendarr.

They didn’t say anything, they just stood there as the Nords’ accusations of spying for the Empire tapered off. In silence, they stood and glared at the two racists. The Dunmer woman, suddenly with backup, decided she didn’t need to stand around and be bullied by the Nords. She left for the south-eastern section of Windhelm--the Grey Quarter, and the Friends followed.

The Grey Quarter was in shambles, the lights on the street corners had not had new candles for some time, roofs were patched with leather, and the people despaired. So, even as the Dunmer woman thanked them for what they had done, the Friends knew more was necessary.

“Excuse me, I’m with the Friends of Llorona. We offer free enchantment services, and we’d like to enchant some items to help make this winter more bearable. Blankets, clothes, and other such things.” Each of the Friends went door to door to say this over and over to people.

The Dunmer were not like the Nords--actively distrusting of magic. And Galamir’s presence among the Friends gave them a bit of hope that the strange pink-coated people were being honest. And after the first blanket enchanted to be as warm as springtime, it began to escalate. The Friends were forced to set up a workshop of sorts in the New Gnisis Cornerclub, a tavern built into the literal southeastern corner of Windhelm. Their time spending days doing similar work for the Imperial Legion served them well.

But then, as was expected, the Nords came. Windhelm guards, following after the racists from earlier came down into the Grey Quarter, and into the corner club. The Dunmer people who had come to get their blankets and their children’s clothes enchanted against the harsh cold, or to get a bauble to help heal wounds, they all immediately looked at the floor when the guards entered the club. The Friends, however, kept working.

This annoyed the guards. “What do you pink freaks think you’re doin’, eh?” One of them, in a closed-face helmet, decided he had a sufficiently large ego to go up and try to kick over one of the tables. Try being the keyword, as Traynda and Brenelin were able to keep the table from flipping while Adannna worked on a scarf.

“Khajiit is enchanting warmth into things,” the cathay woman said, annoyed. “Is difficult enough without silly Nord making it harder than it needs to be.”

“We don’t need any more magic in Windhelm--knock this enchanting nonsense off if you know what’s good for you, freaks.” The two other guards backed up their fellow, and the man who had led them to the club seemed pretty well satisfied. Tolan, in the corner, felt an uncomfortable twist in his stomach at the sight.

“No.”

Adannna’s response threw the guard for a loop. “No? Are you deaf,  _cat_? I’m a Windhelm guard, you don’t  _get_  to say no to me!” He reached forward, perhaps to grab her hand. It didn’t matter. Adannna’s crystal shone with blinding light, and the guard screamed. When it cleared, Adannna held a [dagger ](http://supersentai.com/database/2001_gaoranger/images/gao-ar-beastkingsword.jpg)in her hand, stabbed through the palm of the guard and pinning his hand to the table. Her crystal rested in the sunburst crossguard of the dagger.

“Khajiit says ‘no’,” she snarled and yanked the dagger free. The other Friends stood from their work and held their crystals out in some bizarre threat to the guards--though none of them knew what had happened.

The injured guard examined his hand, now sporting a wound sizable enough that he could  _see through it_ , then looked at the weird mages who looked ready to do the same. While his fellow guards looked ready to make a fight out of it, the injured one turned and quickly left. For he was a bully, and like all bullies, he was a coward at his core. His abandonment left the other two guards, and their racist guide to flounder.

While they decided if they were going to run as well, the Friends returned to their work. Adannna at first found it difficult to continue hers with her new weapon, until she found that her crystal could pop out of its place in the guard if she pressed hard enough. The sabre cat at its center stood out in sharp detail, clearer than any of the others.

A few minutes later, the guards left with the promise of bringing more later, and the work resumed. The Dunmer people of the Grey Quarter hoped to get their items worked on before the guards returned, while the Friends unconsciously agreed that they didn’t care if the guards did or didn’t.

“So,” Orthorn commented after he finished water-proofing a pair of boots for a dock worker. “We going to the Argonian Assemblage after this to do the same? Possibly without stabbing anyone?”

“Only if Galamir does not make goo-goo eyes at every Argonian he sees,” Adannna said back. She took a fresh stack of clothes to enchant, along with the list of requested enchantments, from the Dunmer proprietor of the corner club.

“...Do you mean we’ll go to the Argonian Assemblage, or that you won’t stab anyone only if Galamir controls his Argonian thirst?”

“I will get my vengeance upon you for this,” Galamir told the two of them with his face obscured by his hood. “My vengeance will be swift and brutal.”

“Khajiit is unsure about which, possibly both. Maybe we find Galamir a nice Argonian to marry and get thirst under control.”

\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meridia teaches her followers how to make armor from her love for them. Mohamara teaches his how to make knives from his love for them.


	49. Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meridia is not to be fucked with. In other news, lava is hot.

\---  
**Chapter 49:** Perspective.  
  
Marcuiro examined the gem on a chain, the Eye of Mohamara. He hadn’t put it on, nor had he even touched the gemstone portion directly--because he could already tell what the effect would be based on how the magicka within it moved. It was a transformative item, and that wasn’t something that he had interest in. Even if it was beneficial--he’d spent too long to make his outsides match his inside, and he refused to risk it being different. In his other hand, he held the mote of un-light that Nocturnal had given him to give Mohamara. From what he’d heard, the gem had been made from Mohamara’s right eye, which was also the eye Marcurio had been instructed to press the mote into.  
  
He wanted to test if applying the un-light to the Eye would have an effect on Mohamara. It made sense--the Eye was a part of him, made from the right body part, and only tangentially related to the cat. In academic terms, it seemed a safe control to test the mote on. But he couldn’t help but imagine that if Mohamara found out about it later--possibly from Nocturnal herself, that the cat would lose the shaky trust in Marcurio that had been carefully developed.  
  
It also smacked of hypocrisy to refuse to use an item for its transforming effects, and then to inflict an unknown transforming effect on someone he cared about.  
  
So the thief-mage returned Nocturnal’s gift to his pocket, and the Eye to the oiled leather pouch he kept it in around his neck. Then he decided it was time to do something productive with his time--and went to feed the frostbite spiders. One of the Reachmen who had come to Volskygge, Marcurio never found out his name, had the bright idea to mix in minute traces of stahlrim with the spider’s diet to see how they would affect the silk. The results were two spiders that produced a sort of silk that caught the light as if infused with glitter--something Marcurio hoped would survive the process of dyeing.  
  
Reds and pinks were the principal dyes for the Goldtooth Silk Farm North, red for Solitude’s color and pink for Volskygge’s. Markarth, or rather--Igmund, chafed at the notion that they’d have pay extra for greens and golds unless they sourced the material. Marcurio couldn’t understand the Bear of Markarth, he had plenty of dwarven oil for green dyes--what purpose was he putting it to that he couldn’t spare some for vanity’s sake?  
  
But then, Marcurio tended to prioritize vanity. As evidenced by his use of many tasseled scarves to cover his scar rather than have it removed. If the scar was removed, he’d have no reason to wear a scarf, and they were too fashionable to give up.  
  
He hoped his fashion sense would pass on to the kittens if they did take anything from him. Frankly, he hoped his lack of involvement in their creation would mean they would be spared the memetic Tullius pettiness and temper. As much fun as they were to use, the kittens would ultimately be better people without them.  
  
Jode already was becoming a terror. She had somehow managed to watch Marcurio walk on the air and figure it out herself. More than once, he’d been beseeched by one of the kitten’s minders to get her back from some impossibly high ledge that she’d ascended to by walking on the air.  
  
What worried him was that occasionally he’d catch her sleeping on the air--he hadn’t tried that, but the thought of her falling always compelled him to put something soft underneath her. Jone displayed similar natural talents, but not nearly so advanced. All he could do was bring things he wanted to him--which usually allowed his minders to snatch them away if they were dangerous. The only thing Marcurio wouldn’t let the baby play with was the Eye, as everything else he could heal. Cutting oneself on a dagger was a quick way to learn that it was sharp, from his perspective.  
  
The Pink Coats disagreed.  
  
The Pink Coats also disagreed with his frequent use of the excuse ‘I’m reading porn, fuck off’ as a way to get them to leave him alone with the kids since Mohamara’s mountaintop house was completed. Every so often he would throw in ‘I’m reading porn to the children’ just to get a rise out of the Caller if she decided to pester him.  
  
Jo’leen and Werac took the bulk of the child-minding when Marcurio didn’t want to do it anymore. According to them, Mohamara was hardly away from the kittens when he had been there--which led Marcurio to imagine if it had been possible, he’d have taken them with him to the Reach. An amusing, but also horrifying thought. Children didn’t need to see the Reach, the life of a child in Skyrim was already full of ugly things to look at.  
  
Which was compounded easily eleven-fold by Mohamara returning with a… guest. A tojay, like Mohamara himself, but thin as a whip and mangy. Literally, he appeared to have mange.  
  
“Who… is this?” Was Marcurio’s first question. His first _words_ were an expletive so inappropriate that even Jo’leen chastised him.  
  
“Well, up until recently Khajiit was a minion of Peryite,” Mohamara said while using his powers to force people to keep their distance from their tojay guest. “He’s Orchendor… and um.” The pink cat looked between Marcurio and his guest rapidly. “This one is struggling to find a polite way to phrase this.”  
  
“Orchendor was born from the tapeworm in his gut,” Orchendor volunteered--in _Mohamara’s_ voice. “Peryite tried to use Khajiit to create a plague from our immune system, but stupidly allowed me to make my own choices.” The mangy tojay shrugged. “Mystically speaking--we’re the same person. Different bodies, same identity, same mind. Orchendor is keeping the name so that we can tell ourselves apart.”  
  
“...That’s an issue, I take it?” Marcurio understood, at long last, why his father took to the drink for so many problems. The longer he looked at Orchendor, the more of Mohamara he could see in the mangy tojay’s skull structure, eye color, and body language.  
  
The pink tojay nodded. “Keeping different names lets us… exist in two places at once. Sorta. Kinda. Not really. But the Aurbis isn’t actively trying to make us combine into one so long as we keep some barriers between us.”  
  
Orchendor itched his face, and as he did Marcurio could see fleas move around the corners of his eyes. “Peryite wants Khajiit back on his leash, Khajiit wants him to spend the next twenty-five thousand years getting kicked repeatedly in the dick The Aurbis might as well not get what it wants, too.”  
  
Mohamara made a face and turned to look at… his other self. “We talked about this, no talking about dicks in front of our kittens. Especially Jode, she’s old enough to remember things like that.”  
  
“Dick!” Jode said as she looked up from her spot curled next to Jone.  
  
“Ackpth--see what Khajiit has done?!” Mohamara’s fur went on end, and his tail went straight as a stick. It was then that Marcurio noticed the tojay was still wearing a cloth over his eye--presumably to cover the empty socket.  
  
“Alright. So, _you_ need a bath… possibly multiple baths,” Marcurio said while pointing at Orchendor--who flipped him the bird, “and _you_ need to tell me why your eye isn’t regenerated.”  
  
“Who’s this jackass to be asking questions of us?” Orchendor held up a hand to gesture at Marcurio. Then his hand lit up with a literal fire that grew hotter and whiter the longer Orchendor held it up. “Why shouldn’t this one explode his pretty face, Khajiit?”  
  
“Because he’s our husband.” Mohamara crossed his arms at Orchendor, who looked between the two of them and released his magic. “Well… he’s going to be our husband. This one honestly doesn’t know when the wedding is planned to happen. But he’s our match, decided by our parents.”  
  
Marcurio felt two sudden bursts of warmth in his chest--one, Mohamara had indirectly acknowledged his attractiveness via Orchendor, and the tojay had immediately played the husband card for his defense.  
  
“...Alright, he’s pretty good looking for a baby-daddy,” Orchendor admitted after looking Marcurio up and down, then ceased his fiery threat.  
  
“He’s _not_ our baby-daddy, he’s like their step-dad or something.” Mohamara rubbed his temples. “Mohamara thinks, technically speaking, we’re our baby-daddy.”  
  
Orchendor put his hands on his hips and gave Mohamara a disbelieving look. “Khajiit doesn’t remember us dicking ourselves to make those kittens, so that can’t be right.”  
  
“Khajiit told himself to _stop with the dicks_.”  
  
“Dicks!”  
  
“ _And now she’s got the plural down--good work, me!_ ” The two of them continued to bicker for a moment until Marcurio put his hand between them to snap his fingers.  
  
“Hey. Hey. You two… yous can bicker as much as you like when we aren’t having fleas jump off one of you _visibly_.”  
  
That got the two tojay to look where Marcurio pointed, to where a flea lept from Orchendor’s face onto his fingers and was promptly incinerated. The mangy tojay sighed, his tail, ears, and whiskers all sagged, and he looked to Mohamara plaintively.  
  
“Khajiit hopes he has the stuff to make flea repelling implant?”  
  
Mohamara considered, then shook his head. “Not an implant, but can enchant some stuff to mimic the effects for Khajiit.” The pink tojay led the mangy Khajiit further into Volskygge, while invisible barriers kept his minions away. “Is Khajiit in pain still?”  
  
Marcurio followed after the tojay Khajiit and rolled his sleeves up in anticipation of the near-violent scrubbing that would be needed. He was in the process of wrapping his mind around how his betrothed was… effectively in two places at once. And one of those places had been in torment at the hands of Peryite--if Orchendor’s state was any indicator.  
  
His one regret was that he likely wouldn’t witness Peryite getting his punishment from Mohamara’s Daedric relatives. A sentiment he brought up to the twin tojay as they entered the finished mountaintop house.  
  
“Khajiit doesn’t want Peryite hurt too badly,” Mohamara started, but was cut off by a vicious growl from Orchendor.  
  
“This one does. This one wants him to die screaming.”  
  
“Hush. Khajiit is letting wickedness make him not himself.” Mohamara saw Orchendor struggle with the stairs and lifted him up with invisible hands to ascend. “Our uncle admitted his fault, but he tried to use it to leash this one too. He will be punished as our family decides.”  
  
Marcurio paused in heating a basin of water for the mangy cat’s flea bath. “He tried to leash you?”  
  
Mohamara shrugged. “He does not like that Khajiit knows how to murder him. A sentiment this one thinks others in the family share--but so what? They would plot to kill Khajiit anyway--no big loss that they want no place in Khajiit’s family.”  
  
But Marcurio could see that Mohamara was unintentionally lying. The way his ears sagged, and his tail sunk to the floor--Marcurio could deduce that Mohamara _had_ been hurt by Peryite’s betrayal.  
  
While the mangy cat disrobed, Mohamara took the Meridian amulet from his neck and put it over Orchendor’s. “Mother, there are things you must see.” The faceted morpholith’s inner light wavered and a light ‘ripple’ passed over the emaciated and flea-bitten Khajiit.  
  
The Imperial wisely chose to look away when the amulet’s glow shone cherry red. **”Who has done this to you?”** Meridia’s voice rolled over the mage-thief like a heat wave, as if her words were fire incarnate.  
  
“Peryite.” Both of them said the name. And as quickly as the wrathful Daedra of the Day appeared, she left. Orchendor looked at Mohamara, confused. He clutched at the amulet as if it were an ice pack on an injury. “You called her… Mother. Why?”  
  
“She is our mother,” Mohamara told himself. Ice that had been going through Marcurio’s veins from the first mention became glaciers, and he couldn’t move. “She… adopted us, for lack of a better word. Which reminds Khajiit, when she is done exacting vengeance on our behalf, we should introduce the kittens to their grandmother.”  
  
Adoption? Marcurio chose wisely not to bring it up, and instead resumed heating the water. “You might want to… put off, introducing them to my mother, so you know in advance. She’s likely to make certain… assumptions about how they were born.”  
  
Orchendor looked from Marcurio to Mohamara, and back again. “Is Yagraz the only person we know who has _healthy_ relationship with her parents?”  
  
“Yagraz is a statistical outlier, and should not be included in the distribution,” Mohamara responded, then shoved his other self into the water.  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara and Marcurio watched Orchendor sit on the swing on Mohamara’s mountaintop porch, with the kittens either in his arms or chewing on his enormous ears. Jone was the beneficiary of a soft lullaby while he was being rocked--Mohamara identified it as ‘Katyusha’, a Dwemer song.  
  
After multiple baths, and some Restoration magic, the other tojay was no longer filthy or mangy--his main traits to separate him from Mohamara were Orchendor's emaciated appearance and natural fur color. The weight difference actually made it difficult for Mohamara’s clothes to fit Orchendor, so he’d had to settle for the child-sized robes Mohamara used to wear.  
  
“I don’t know why my eye isn’t growing back,” Mohamara told Marcurio at length since Orchendor watching eventually proved not entertaining. “I can see just fine--I linked my optic nerve to these beads so I can still see. But… it’s not coming back it looks like.”  
  
Marcurio pinched his chin between his pointer finger and thumb and pondered. “It might have something to do with you being the one to dig it out. But then--why would your hand have grown back? Either way, perhaps if we just shove the gem back in…?” While he talked, the thief-mage lifted up the leather pouch that contained the Eye. “I’m afraid that while I appreciate you giving me your artifact, I don’t want to use any transformative items. I have… a bit of a history with my body not looking right.”  
  
“Oh, okay.” Mohamara took the pouch and retrieved the Eye. But when he lifted up the cloth covering his empty socket and held the gem up, it kept yanking his hand away. Like two magnets repelling each other. “Huh. It’s not working… maybe if I glue it in….”  
  
Marcurio, careful not to touch the Eye itself, retrieved the artifact and put it back in the pouch. “I don’t think that will work. But… I have a gift from Nocturnal, perhaps that will help out?” From his pocket, he produced the mote of un-light. “She said to put it into your right eye, and that it would show you to find comfort and protection in the dark.”  
  
The pink tojay took the mote of un-light and examined it. No matter what angle he looked at it from, or how he twisted it, it appeared to be a perfect black void where something ought to be. He shrugged and put the mote up to his eye. The opposite effect of the gem occurred, the mote was yanked out of his grip and into the empty socket. Whereupon the most _hideous_ , **disgusting** slurping sound emerged from the half-covered socket. It was so bad that Marcurio felt sick from hearing it, and Orchendor paused in his lullaby to give a bewildered look to his other self.  
  
Even Mohamara was disturbed by the ugly sound, but as he was the source of it, there was no escape for him.  
  
When it subsided, all that could be said was said by Marcurio: “What the _fuck_ was that?”  
  
Meanwhile, in the space between the realms of Oblivion, Nocturnal sensed a powerful disturbance and emerged from her realm to investigate. Thereupon she found her sister beating the existential shit out of Peryite to the point where the least of the Princes was pleading for help. She decided to create a drink out of the free-floating creatia around her realm, a straw with which to drink it and enjoyed the show.  
  
She was soon joined by Mephala who brought opera glasses for them to view the beating in greater detail, Sheogorath who both joined in on the beating and watched from the sidelines, Azura who brought biscuits, and Clavicus Vile who recorded the beating for those who did not show up.  
  
Back on Nirn, night approached. The kittens were asleep and curled up between the two versions of their father in their sleeping chest--moved to Mohamara’s house. A proper bed had been made for them, but the tojay had insisted Marcurio take it for the night. But they continued to chat with each other with the lid up.  
  
“... So why do you two _want_ to be separate?” Marcurio asked as he fluffed the goose-down pillows he carried with him at all times for the possibility of requiring sleep. Mohamara favored cotton-stuffed pillows for his sleeping, and while Marcurio wouldn’t deny his betrothed his preference, he wouldn’t subject himself to it.  
  
“We’re learning how to do this on command,” Orchendor responded from the sleeping chest. He was so emaciated that there was plenty of room for him in the chest--enough for him to form his own cocoon from bear fur blankets. “The longer we stay apart, the more we’re able to feel out how connected we are, fix problems in that connection, and establish new ones.”  
  
“Being in multiple places at once is going to be really useful later on,” Mohamara added as he read from the Lexicon. “Plus Orchendor’s figured out how to use Mysticism to teleport between places, but I went the path of flight. The divergence is really interesting, we might just write a paper about it.”  
  
“The only college worth writing a paper for in this time is Winterhold,” Orchendor grumbled. “And the way they talked to us--they can go fuck themselves.”  
  
“Well, we’ll be going there in a few days--got to train up a small army of mages to beat up a near-dead Hold capital.”  
  
“Ugh.”  
  
Marcurio looked up from the bed and then scooted over to the chest to look down inside. He had to admit the collection of cats therein was quite adorable. “One, you could always send it off to the Arcane University in Cyrodiil, that’s where I went to school. A perfectly fine place for academia. And two, are you lot sure you wouldn’t rather sleep on an actual bed. You’ve got a mountain between you and your follower’s night-time antics now.”  
  
“Khajiit is down for sleeping on a bed so long as he doesn't have to move,” Orchendor said from his cocoon. “He just got comfortable in here.”  
  
“The kittens might not react well to it, they’ve always slept in the sleeping chest with Mohamara….” Mohamara said with his ears down. But Jode, upon sighting ‘Mario’, decided she wanted to move about some more and walked on the air out of the chest. This vexed Mohamara greatly. “Or he can be immediately proven wrong by his sassy daughter. That works too.” Thus the migration to the bed began.  
  
Orchendor was lifted up by Mohamara’s Mysticism and placed on the far end of the bed. Jone, in his own cocoon, was set next to him, and Mohamara laid on the other side--closest to Marcurio. Jode stole a section of Marcurio’s pillow space for her sleeping. The pink tojay went back to his reading of the Dwemer cube, which Marcurio watched until he drifted off.  
  
His last thought was that, on further review, Mohmara would look best with those sky-blue pearls that came from Solstheim.  
  
\--  
  
The Staff was a Test. Morokei, Dragon Priest of Bromjunaar knew this in his very bones. He hadn’t been given the Staff for his own glory--that had ended when Al-Du-In fled in fear from a mortal. He had stopped fighting to keep the Staff with him, but it did not leave on its own. The mortal souls that bound him eternally with their petty magics could be blown aside from the power of the Staff in but a moment--it resisted his attempts to access its higher level functions no longer.  
  
The Staff was a Test--but what would it test? What was the reward? Morokei knew in his bones that he had failed the Test long ago. Shalidor had made the attempt, but failed in a unique way--he became a part of the blinding light, not the all-knowing illumination. Savos had stumbled at the final stages of the Test, and failed as the Arch Mage hade done--Morokei had despaired at his failure. So many lives, so much time, so much effort-- _wasted_!  
  
Morokei, a withered Draugr behind his namesake mask that allowed him to know the Staff as he knew himself, wished he had more tears to shed for the loss. Death in the labyrinth was no release--he could feel the spirits of those Savos had brought with him, bound just as tightly as those the ‘arch mage’ had shackled to save himself. Just as the Arch Mage had done before him. Morokei was not cruelty, he was glory--his purpose to celebrate the accomplishments of the victorious, and entice those who failed but lived still.  
  
In a way, he imagined, he was like the Staff. A test. Perhaps that was why the Staff stayed with him and allowed him its full splendor. With his true death, the Draugr and spirits entombed within Bromjunaar would be released, and his mask would become his murderer’s. Would the Staff stay with the victor, then? Would it put the one to pass Morokei’s test to its own Test?  
  
He could see the one who would be beckoned to the Test. The Staff allowed him to see beyond the limits of his own sight. In that one, he saw all that had made him hopeful about Savos Aren--which made him suspicious. Morokei could not shake the notion that this new challenger would fail as Savos had done--to throw others at the danger and run. This new, small, challenger did not seem a coward--but neither had Savos, once upon a time.  
  
Morokei’s spying was put a stop to by the object of his observation suddenly looking directly at Morokei’s viewing point. Whereupon he promptly flipped the Dragon Priest off. After that, the remote viewing became more difficult until even Morokei could not sustain it. Were the Priest alive, he might have laughed. Instead, he returned to waiting in waking sleep for his test, and the Staff’s.  
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the scale of bizarre ways to come into the world, being born from a tapeworm is pretty low on the list.


	50. Divine Knowledge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mohamara learns how to make minions on command.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mr. Sandman! Man me some sand!

  
\---  
**Chapter 50:** Divine Knowledge.  
  
“...thus, the work of Chief Architect Yrafgru helped finalize the Tonal Architecture of Dwemer metal, and how it resists the elements. The basic components--corundum, moonstone, iron, and brass all add together to make something greater, building upon each other exponentially. In hindsight, it becomes clear that the Ayleids had a similar methodology in the creation of their works--but substituting base iron for meteoric iron. Can anyone tell me why the Dwemer did not do so as well?”  
  
Mohamara turned away from the projection of the Lexicon’s knowledge about Dwemer metal to address the gathering of his worshippers. Orchendor manned the slate, keeping the connection to the Lexicon active. Only a few Pink Coats were not actively taking notes, and they seemed confused. The emaciated tojay picked up on his other self’s frustration and brought up the slide detailing the properties of meteoric iron. When that proved insufficient, he had the relevant piece of information start to increase in size. The motion drew the attention of students, and hands went up.  
  
“Yes, Denet?”  
  
A Reachwoman new initiate was called on from the students to answer the question. She looked surprised that she had been called on but quickly cleared her throat to speak. “Um, the melting temperature of meteoric iron is over three times that of mundane iron?”  
  
“Correct!” Mohamara resumed his lecture, pleased that someone had answered even if they needed help. “As we can tell from slides three hundred and nine, to three hundred twenty-five, most Dwemer facilities used active lava flows for their forges--and lava can only get so hot even with the Dwemer’s additives. Their disgust with magic prevented them from using fire magic to reach the incredible temperatures needed to work meteoric iron.”  
  
When Mohamara turned his back, Sheogorath stood up from the crowd of students, wearing a pink towel over his head, and shouted ‘Nerd!’ at the top of his lungs before he ducked down again.  
  
\--  
  
The two tojay sat across from each other while Jone and Jode got their evening feeding, with Baishi pouncing after their flicking tails. Orchendor and Mohamara were participating in a Mysticism exercise: Patty Cake. First, they clapped their hands--a shock to still the mind, to realize that I am me, I am I, I _am_ , and center oneself for the next step. They would clap each other’s hand, like high-fiving, and briefly form a connection. I am me, I am I, I am would become I am I, You are you, We are. And while they clapped, they would exchange ideas purely through Mysticism--the first clap set up a bond between the act and the self, so information could pass between them. Mohamara passed packets of complex emotions and information to Orchendor, who in turn passed him instincts. Emotions like the overwhelming anxiety over Marcurio’s presence, which eroded every time the Imperial helped him out, respected his boundaries, and sat down to talk with him--these were what Mohamara passed on. And Orchendor’s instincts were how to survive in the dark, how to make a roll of bread last as long as possible when to move to avoid being found by a Dwemer automaton.  
  
What ended up breaking the chain of clapping and information exchange was Mohamara passing on a feeling and knowledge to support it: “Our father loves us, and we love him.”  
  
Orchendor recoiled from the knowledge and spit-hissed at his other self. Baishi fled from the enraged tojay to her mother’s skirts. “You _lie_ ,” Orchendor told the other half of himself. “We _hates_ Skooma Cat.”  
  
“Khajiit… I know that isn’t how hate works.” The longer he went without sleeping tree sugar, the easier it was to slip back into the ‘Nord way of speaking’. It was an interesting phenomenon--sleeping tree sugar boosted his empathy so much that he couldn’t fit inside himself, part of him was always outside and supported by other Khajiit. Logically, it would be the same with moon sugar. “Love becomes hate becomes love again. Sheogorath gave us a name full of his love, and you know it.”  
  
“Love is not given, Khajiit!” Orchendor, for whatever reason, did not ever slip into the ‘Nord way of speaking’. He seemed permanently locked into the Khajiit third person speak. “Love is _shown_ , it is taught! All that wretched Skooma Cat ever showed us was pain and making our life miserable!”  
  
Jo’leen wisely scooped up Baishi and left the room with the kittens in tow. Jode tried to leap off to stay with Mohamara, but was plucked from the air and quickly spirited off.  
  
The two of Mohamara looked at each other, one with outrage and betrayal, and the other with sorrow. “Our life was already miserable,” Mohamara said, his voice heavy with pain. While he talked, he flicked his ears back and let his tail go low. “Sheogorath gave us the chance to make it better.”  
  
“By snatching us from time, nearly killing this one, and actively tormenting us whenever it _amused him_!” Orchendor pointed at his pinker self and snarled. “Where was Sheggorath’s love when we spent _weeks_ in a wheelchair after stupid humans took our claws away?! Where was Sheggorath’s love when we were alone--before even Yagraz?!” All the rage and pain that Mohamara had carefully suppressed for years exploded out of Orchendor. Where Mohamara’s sympathetic bonds had been gray and withered before the Sphere of Kindness touched them, Orchendor’s were cracked and actively bleeding. “Where was Sheogorath’s love when this one was locked deep below the earth?! When, if he died, then Khajiit would have died just the same?!”  
  
That had been something that went unsaid between the two of them. They were still mortal, as they had no place outside of Nirn to go--and if either of them was slain, the other would die as well.  
  
“He was there, in our name. In the name that means ‘I love you’.” Mohamara let Orchendor scoff and pace and snarl at his words--the rage the other him had was his too, and it needed a release. “And he is here now. He has always answered when we asked him for something.” The memory of how he’d been temporarily gifted the Spear of Bitter Mercy came back in intense detail. “It hasn’t always been _pleasant_... but he answered. Because he loves us.”  
  
“Because Sheggorath is a _madman!_ ,” Orchendor pulled at his own ears. “Why does Khajiit _defend_ him?! Khajiit has the same boiling rage inside him--this one can see it!”  
  
“I have chosen to let go of that anger,” the pink tojay said and approached his other self. “Rage makes us… something else. I’ve seen it--nearly choked our father-in-law to death because of it.” He shrugged while Orchendor’s outrage became wary confusion. “It was fun… but in hindsight, that kind of rage combined with our power makes for a huge mess. We are a god now, we need to hold ourselves to a higher standard--and part of that means forgiving people who probably don’t deserve it. Mother has avenged us on the one responsible for our suffering, that is enough.”  
  
Orchendor looked like he was only a hair’s breadth from lashing out at himself--Mohamara watched the rage boil in his sympathetic bonds for an uncomfortably long moment. But then, like a dam breaking, rage became despair. “It isn’t fair.”  
  
The two halves of Mohamara embraced. “No, it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean we stop trying to be good people--as Meridia, our Mother, has asked us to be. And as we asked of our followers, to fill the world from top to bottom in joy. To do that, there isn’t any room for grudge-holding--no matter how much we deserve to.”  
  
While the two of them hugged it out, Sheogorath stuck his head in through a nearby window. “Does this mean I can join in the hug?”  
  
Both tojay, in perfect synchronization, pointed at Sheogorath without looking and sent out two bolts of lightning to strike the Mad God in the face, and sent him screaming through the air.  
  
\--  
  
“Why do we bother with these people?” Orchendor asked Mohamara one night after Marcurio had left for the Reach with several former Forsworn. Apparently, Yagraz had to clear out a Forsworn encampment and she wanted to avoid killing the women and children.  
  
The emaciated tojay had stopped packing for the trip to Winterhold, but Mohamara continued to fold Jode’s onesies for transport. “Because it is the right thing to do.”  
  
“But… Khajiit knows what’s going to happen.” Orchendor bitterly resumed folding smallclothes and swaddling clothes for the basket. “By the time we’re born, this valley becomes the place where the rich people live, and spit on homeless people. Where it used to be _illegal_ for beastfolk to live, even.”  
  
“Maybe, maybe not.” Mohamara stopped folding and looked at himself. “What if… the future we came from was all a Dragon Break? Yagraz broke Akatosh to come back, so maybe we can change how things turn out?”  
  
“That won’t really change what happened, it will just make both histories true.” Orchendor stopped and held up an article of clothing that confused him. “This one thought we only had one pair of smallclothes with garnets sewn in?”  
  
“Marcurio gave us like, five more. He asked permission first, so I gave him the green lamp.” Mohamara waved off his other self’s cat-smirk. “Yes yes, let our mind go into the gutter, not like we have telepathic children who could potentially pick up on that.”  
  
Orchendor’s cat-smirk vanished instantly. “Khajiit is such a kill-joy.”  
  
“ _Anyway_. Even if it’s just one alternate history that gets lumped in with the other one….” Mohamara spread his arms wide and shrugged at the same time. “The comfort and help we provide to these people and the people born after them still _matters_. We might be able to keep more people from dying when that big fuck-off volcano in Atmora erupts.”  
  
For a few minutes, the two of them returned to folding clothes in anticipation of the long trip to Winterhold. But then Orchendor spoke up again. “What are we? Daedra, Aedra? Incredibly powerful stuffed animal for tall-legs?”  
  
“Right now we’re a type of Ehlnofey since we’re mostly stuck on Nirn.” Mohamara handed Orchendor an egg of sleeping-tree sugar. They had an arrangement--the emaciated half of themselves would partake of the sugar, since having one of them that spoke correctly was deemed vital. It also allowed the nearly-starved tojay to start packing on some pounds. “Any clues on where that dessert desert is?”  
  
“If Khajiit makes that stupid pun one more time, this one will tell Yagraz how he had a crush on her ex-boyfriend!” Orchendor took the sugar-egg and pointed it at Mohamara like a weapon.  
  
“He was a Tsaesci, we’ve always had a thing for snakes! Now shut up and take the hallucinogenic sugar!”  
  
Orchendor swallowed the egg, and Mohamara continued to fold clothes. The emaciated Khajiit froze in place after swallowing the egg--invisible bonds from Mohamara kept him from exploding into sudden uncontrollable action and injuring himself as Mohamara had.  
  
Every time Orchendor took some of the sugar, he seemed to go to the same desert that Mohamara had--except it would be different every time. The first time, plants were growing up around the lake of tears Mohamara had cried, and there were dead Khajiit living in the proto-jungle. Next, there was a great barge that sailed on the lake, crewed by dozens of Mohamaras, who dove down into the lake and brought more Khajiit to the shore. Then the barge became a Dwemer airship, and the steam from the ship would create clouds to give shade and a weather cycle to the sugar desert--but instead of water, it would rain milk and honey.  
  
According to Orchendor, it seemed a wonderful idea at first, but getting honey out of their fur was absolutely horrid.  
  
Mohamara continued to pack, mostly on auto-pilot for the duration of Orchendor’s trip. He had to manually stop himself a couple of times when he tried to pack the kittens away too--though they seemed to find being in baskets to be perfectly pleasant. It was the possibility that they would get smooshed that drove Mohamara to take them back out.  
  
“Ugh,” Orchendor spoke at long last. “This one’s neck has such a crick.”  
  
“Hold on,” Mohamara responded and remotely healed him. That was a talent that Orchendor was eager to combine with Destruction and Conjuration spells. “That feel better?”  
  
“A lot, yeah. Khajiit could always lay Khajiit down when he takes the sugar….”  
  
Mohamara held Jone up in front of his face and spoke in a faux high-pitched voice. “Daddy says that any form of movement could injure you worse since your muscles rapidly tense and relax during the trip.” Jone, meanwhile, stretched out his tiny hands and showed Orchendor that he could control his claws at long last. “He also says you should quit yer bitchin’ and tell him where it hurts if you want more healing.”  
  
Orchendor couldn’t bear to flip Jone off, so he took the babe from Mohamara and _then_ flipped himself off. “The army of us in that sugar place have begun building. They are using the sugar to form blocks--like sandstone, and using Dwemer metal to help build a city. Perhaps is from reading the Lexicon?”  
  
Mohamara shrugged. “At least the knowledge is useful for us. Can you tell if it’s a demiplane, or full plane of Oblivion yet?”  
  
Orchendor shook his head, and then jerked suddenly when Jone tried to snap at his ear. “This one isn’t convinced it is in Oblivion at all--there’s too much creatia, the sun is too bright.”  
  
Mohamara frowned at the implication. “We… can’t have a connection to Aetherius, though. Our father’s a _Daedra_ , everyone’s been telling us how Daedric we are.” The tojay sighed and found a chair to flounce into. “When we get to Winterhold, we need to talk to their Conjuration expert, see if we can summon something from that plane to tell us more about it.”  
  
“Servitors have no insight?”  
  
Mohamara flicked his hands up where Yehochanan was crafting a web of prismatic silk in the rafters. “Yehochanan says it’s important for us to figure it out ourselves--and Qorach’s a bodyguard servitor. If the Eye was a servitor, it might have insight we could use.” He suddenly stopped and looked at his other self, who was allowing Jone to try climbing him. “Maybe if we create a third us--we can have that version of us stay there permanently to find out about the plane?”  
  
Their plotting was ended by a sudden epiphany between the two of them. They both pointed at each other, in perfect synch: “We should create a minion!”  
  
It wasn’t until Jone started to bawl that they realized Orchendor had dropped the baby in his excitement. Then they spent three solid hours trying to convey their sorriness to the kitten who didn’t have the mental capacity to understand yet.  
  
\--  
  
“Alright, so this book by Fa-Nuit-Hen says that if we can imagine it clearly enough… it should just happen.”  
  
“Khajiit wonders if we should trust a book written by Boethia’s spawn.”  
  
Mohamara whapped his other self on the shoulder while they walked through the sugar sands of the otherworldly realm. Behind them, an army of themselves were constructing a city made out of compressed sugar along the shores of the lake of tears, while a jungle grew visibly from the lake as well. “He’s our cousin, and he might show up to our wedding. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”  
  
Orchendor rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. In the physical world, their bodies were trapped in ice, kept alive by enchanted items but unable to move until they returned. “Then let us imagine a minion, hmm?” The two of them thought of something that would allow them to just _create_ another entity and something happened. A projection of light appeared between the two of them, with a blank template for a Khajiit figure on one side, and a series of sliders, drop-down menus, and typing fields on the other. “Oh, is like a game! We create a character.”  
  
“Well, we’re already imagining them, subconsciously. Perhaps we can… use them as a template?” Mohamara indicated the army of himself working tirelessly in the distance. None of them would obey the two self-aware Mohamaras, they were too busy seeing to the construction, retrieving Khajiit from the sands and the lake, or tending to the needs of the dead souls. The pink tojay tapped a dropdown menu and selected a ‘Mohamara’ saved template to prove his point.  
  
Orchendor shook his head. “Having minion like them is no good--so small! This one wants a big, tall minion, to make enemies cower in fear!” It was like dealing with someone in their teens, Mohamara realized. But then, they weren’t even twenty-two yet. Perhaps some levity was called for. He didn’t stop Orchendor from navigating away from the Mohamara template into the ‘big-size’ category.   
  
“How big we talkin’? We’ve got to be careful that we don’t use up too much power--there’s a lot of dead souls here who need looking after and I’m not going to sacrifice any of them.” Mohamara paused and considered his other self’s parameters. “The biggest I’m willing to go is something as tall as Kessei, sound good?”  
  
“Bah,” Orchendor kicked a sugar dune. “Fine, fine. This one will settle for something in a normal big-size.” He selected the height slider and pulled it down from something the size of the White-Gold tower to the average for a cathay-raht. “Now--you pick something for this minion.”  
  
“Well,” the pink tojay assumed a thinking pose. “We want someone smart--who can follow complex orders and think for themselves, yes?”  
  
“Of course! No arguments here.”  
  
Mohamara tapped the intelligence slider and tugged it toward the upper end. This caused pop-ups on the display of the minion to appear. ‘Magic-capable’, ‘self-aware’, ‘sphere-compatible’ and others.  
  
Back and forth they decided things about their new minion, designing every aspect of their personality, physical form, and even capabilities. The process at first was straightforward, but as time wore on, it became tedious. Boringly tedious.  
  
“Should we give it the ability to whistle?” Mohamara looked up from his place on a palm tree that had grown partially horizontally to provide him a seat to where Orchendor lay splayed out in the sand on his back.  
  
“We gave it the rapturous enjoyment of mustard--Khajiit says no to whistling.”  
  
“Alright, fine. Now… if I’m reading this right, we just need to decide on a name, and we can start the process. I don’t think ‘Servitor Zero-Three’ is a good name, personally.”  
  
Orchendor stuck his tongue out at his other self. “Just use a name randomizer--we don’t know Khajiit names all that well.”  
  
Mohamara shook his head no, aggressively. “Absolutely not. Qorach and Yehochanan chose their own names, but this one we’re doing right. We’re going to think of something meaningful, that this person will be proud of.” He paused then looked at the character creator again. “We also forgot to choose the gender for this thing. Whoops.”  
  
Orchendor did finger-wands at his pinker self. “And is your turn to pick--so this one gets to pick a name!” When Mohamara visibly pouted at himself, the emaciated Khajiit sighed and fell back onto the sugar sand. “Fine, Khajiit will give a good name, just decide already.”  
  
“Well... okay, I’ll trust me on this.” Mohamara navigated back to the gender-selection and, of course, went with the male option. It certainly wasn’t because the male preset with the appearance choices they had made was more appealing to look at. Not at all. Shut up, he would tell anyone who pressed the issue further.  
  
“Khajiit remembers that prefixes are a thing with Khajiit names. Ri is a respected elder, Mo is child or virgin,” he did finger-wands at his pinker self, “and the juh sound is supposed to be for a wizard. This one goes with the third option, so ‘J’ to start.” Orchendor tapped his chin and sighed. “... This one does not want to, but perhaps naming first creation something Sheggorath would like. What is the ta’agra word for cheese?”  
  
Mohamara enabled the Tongues spell and spoke the word aloud for Orchendor to hear it.  
  
“Alright, the whole thing sounds good. Remember, J is capital, not anything after the glottal stop.”  
  
Mohamara rolled his eye and pressed the necessary buttons to finalize their creation. All at once, the floating character creator vanished. For a long moment, nothing seemed to happen, but then a droning sound filled the air. From on high a cathay-raht sized figure crashed into the sugar sand feet-first. A huge cloud of sugar crystals flew up from the impact and went directly into both tojay’s eyes and noses.  
  
While they thrashed about from the foreign particles being where they ought not, their creation settled in the sugar sand, stuck in a T-pose to assert himself over the encroaching jungle. He had the semblance of a Khajiit but made of metal instead of flesh. His eyes were lifeless panes of glass, but in short order, they lit up with bright yellow light. Sugar crystals that landed upon his metallic form gave him a bit of a glittering appearance.  
  
The creation was pastel in color entirely--even the black portions of his metal form was desaturated to mimic a pastel. With mechanical pomp, the Third Servitor began to move from the T-pose, and dig his feet from the sand. By the time its creator’s two halves were able to look upon it, the false flesh and skin they had designed were grown over the metal that he was truly made of. The sabre fangs, an inherited trait from its creator, were hidden in the appearance of being a droopy mustache.  
  
The created and creators looked upon each other and said nothing.  
  
Finally, the created saw what he needed to see, and spoke. “This one thanks the blessed one for giving him life, but….” He put one hand on his hip and flexed his bicep with the other. “Was it truly necessary to make J’zargo so incredibly handsome? The mortals, both the dead here and the living on Nirn, will have no way to resist his charm and good looks.”  
  
Without hesitation, the two halves of Mohamara responded: “Yes, absolutely necessary, one hundred percent required.”  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hello mortals. Look at your cat, now back to J'zargo, now back to your cat, now back to J'zargo. Sadly, they aren't like this one. But if they accept the loving embrace of the blessed one, they could become handsome like him. Look down, back up, where are we? You are on the barge of the blessed one, with the Khajiit your cat could be as handsome as. What's in your hand, back to J'zargo, he has it. It's a smoothie made of everything you love. Look again, the smoothie is now a transfinite amount of pearls in all colors. Anything is possible when one accepts the loving embrace of the blessed one. J'zargo is on a dragon."


	51. Eye of the Storm.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos is an illusion. But also fun to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Beware the Third Eye Gem, red in hue and surrounded by gold feathers.  It is a window into the soul of the poor creature that dons it.  The Eye peels away the layers of doubt, the lies we tell each other and ourselves, and lays bare the truth of the individual.  Ten times that which the Eye finds on the inside, it makes on the outside of they who wear it.”

 

 

\- - -

 

**Chapter 51:**  Eye of the Storm.

 

There was a hidden temple built into the Karthspire, a jagged mountain that marked the turning point of the Karth River to the east. Marcurio spotted it from the air, while Kipgolsik made a show and disturbed the Forsworn that scurried about the ‘spire’s base. The Nord Blade they’d retrieved from the Ratway suspected it to be an old Blade fortress and insisted that the temple be reopened for the Blades’ use.

 

He found it odd, that people who were sworn to ‘serve the Dragonborn’ they gave a lot of orders. Yagraz was hesitant to bash the old man, Esbern, for his tone, but the younger woman who had organized their infiltration of the Thalmor Embassy caught the Orc’s hands many a time. Once upon a time, the Blades were the epitome of secretive warrior-spies on behalf of the Dragonborn emperors of Cyrodiil—but decades of being hunted by the Thalmor had rendered them down to two members.

 

It irked the both of them profoundly that while Yagraz, backed up by Kipgolsik and the former Forsworn volunteers from Volskygge all attempted peace, Marcurio would sneak into the temple via the sizable aerie near the Karthspire’s summit. As the thief-mage had found, no one seemed to consider the possibility of burglars being able to  _fly_ , and the doors from the Akaviri-inspired aerie into the temple itself were unlocked. Only hundreds of years of weathering barred the doors, and with a clever application of Alteration magic, that was undone.

 

Once upon a time, the ruined building Marcurio skulked through had been a place of power, authority, a fortress from which the Akaviri invaded Tamriel. Time had destroyed nearly everything of wood or paper, only stone and metal seemed to endure. Among the ruins of the temple’s barracks, Marcurio found a complete set of the Blades’ unique style of armor, including the sizable round shield. Additionally, he found an enchanted sword forged in the curved, thin one-sided blade style of the Blades—dai-katana he remembered the name was. The weapon was imbued with lightning, weaker than normal, but he could feel some other magic sleeping within.

 

Once all the valuables were gathered in one place, Marcurio bagged them up and looked for the front door. He found it but found the passageway that it led too blocked by statuary of all things. While he sharpened the Blades blade he’d rightfully pillaged, Marcurio listened for any movement from the other side.

 

Peace talks, it seemed, didn’t go quite as well. In only a few short minutes, he could feel the ground quake with Volendrung’s impact, hear two distinct uses of the Thu’um, and enjoyed the sound of dying religious extremist. Most of the Forsworn, he noted, seemed to scream at a sharp A as they died. Later, he could hear Esbern gush about the architecture and the influences of the Reman dynasty. As a fully licensed and accredited asshole, Marcurio, of course, had to trick the old man into nearly having a heart attack by pretending to be the enormous head of Reman Cyrodiil that blocked the doorway. To do otherwise would be unethical.

 

Naturally, the first thing the Blades took umbrage with was the loot sack.

 

“Those items rightfully belong to the Blades!”

 

“We need every asset we can get to rebuild.”

 

“Dragonborn, you can’t let this… this tomb robber to make off with his loot.”

 

Yagraz, visibly  _done_  with their whining, sighed and addressed Marcurio. “Let me see the stuff.” She lent her critical eye to the armor, and Blades sword, passing over the trinkets wholesale. “Alright, the years have not been kind to this stuff. Uneven thickness in the metal, what looks to be some type of fungal growth, and even then it was probably sub-standard stuff when it was  _new_. This sword is neat, but  _ancient_. They’re museum pieces, nothing I’d send people to fight and die in.” Over the protests of the Blades, she handed the stuff back to Marcurio. “I know a smith over in Whiterun, she can make something in this style but actually worth the metal, it’s made of. We’ll give her some work once we get these dragons under control.”

 

“...Fine. I guess we’d just put it on a display anyway if it’s that bad,” Delphine bitterly relented. “We should go inside, there might be some clues to--”

 

The Breton warrior was cut off by the sound of dragon roars and frightened screaming. Marcurio, naturally, assumed Kipgolsik had made his move and was attempting to betray his way to freedom. When the party emerged from the Karthspire’s interior, instead they were met with the rare sight of two dragons locked in aerial combat.

 

Kipgolsik threw a torrent of frost upon a brown dragon, who returned the favor with fire and force. Any doubt that the event wasn’t a surprise attack ended when the brown dragon flipped in the air and used a Shout of raw kinetic force to drive Kipgolsik into the Karth River.

 

Marcurio set his bag of loot down, and filled his hands with lightning, while Yagraz plotted the dragon’s path for a hammer toss. All those preparations ended when a third dragon’s shadow filled the air, and Yagraz gave the unambiguous order to ‘get the fuck down’.

 

The new dragon was black, his scales warped like they had been splashed with acid. His eyes burned like coals. And as if the small force of former Forsworn, Blades and assorted ‘adventurers’ were beneath his notice, he landed on the shores of the Karth River to speak to the frost dragon.

 

“That’s the World Eater,” the Dragonborn told the hiding Blades and Marcurio.  “ **Don’t say his name**. He’s pissed about Kipgolsik not obeying him anymore--demanding to know whose Thu’um has the Mastery in Kip’s reckoning.”

 

“And we’re hiding instead of fighting him because…?”  Marcurio casually said in response while Esbern fought off a panic attack.

 

“Because we need to plan out how to hit him hard enough to actually do damage.”  Yagraz whapped the thief-mage like he should have known better. “Esbern, you distract him with an atronach, slick, you drain his magicka so he can’t Shout, I’ll go for the webbing on his wings so he can’t fly away, Delphine, you keep Esbern safe if the other dragon comes for him.”

 

“You can not--to fight  _Alduin_ \--”  Esbern sputtered, but was harshly hushed by Yagraz.

 

Too late.  The black dragon paused and arched his neck to look back at them.  “Screw it,” Yagraz said and stood. She lept high into the air, unnaturally so, trailing red sparks from her greaves.

 

Marcurio vanished from the world after blowing a note on his whistle.  He slipped down the Karthspire unseen while Yagraz eventually came down with the force of gravity.  This gave him a front-row seat to watch the dragon, Alduin, casually spin and strike her horizontally in the torso as she descended on him.  Her momentum promptly shifted ninety degrees and almost saw her strike the Karthspire--fortunately, Volendrung’s many spikes allowed her to slow her movement to avoid death by mountain impact.

 

Kipgolsik looked ready to return to the fight but was forced down into the water once more by the brown dragon.  This agitated Marcurio who in turn conveyed this to the brown dragon with multiple expert-tier lightning spells applied to his nervous system. The brown dragon, ungrateful brat that he was, did not enjoy being corrected in such a socially acceptable, for mages, way.

 

Marcurio’s dragon minion had the electrified corpse of his brother land upon him, the brown dragon’s flesh burned away to leave behind his bones as he fell. Kipgolsik was the center of a light show as the other dragon’s soul was absorbed. Alduin beheld this, inscrutable.

 

**“Disgusting joore,”**  the Nord’s Akatosh rumbled in the common tongue. “It shames me that my brothers could not maintain their lordship over you while I was away.” Alduin turned his attention from them to the sky and spread his wings to take off.  **“Kipgolsik, if you will not return as my brother, I will see you return as _charr_!”**

 

Marcurio didn’t fully remember the fight, he was too busy trying to stay alive. Alduin’s thu’um shattered the sides of the Karthspire, cracked the road that ran on the opposite side of the Karth River like a whip, bade rocks to fall from the sky, and other cataclysmic things. The thief-mage’s main concern was staying  _alive_  through the fight.

 

The single most annoying part of the battle, however, was that Alduin seemed to be invulnerable. Literally nothing they did hurt him—even Yagraz using the thu’um upon him seemed more insulting for the black dragon than a threat. All of that added up to an unpleasant experience. This was worsened when Alduin finally managed to track down the invisible Marcurio.

 

**”I smell that damned mortal’s magic on you,** ” the black dragon growled as he pursued the thief-mage across the shattered terrain.  **”I will have my vengeance upon him, with your death as my instrument!”**  Alduin snapped his maws after Marcurio as the Imperial ran on the air away from certain death.

 

In order to escape death, Marcurio ended up making a terrible mistake. Alduin had snapped at him at an upward angle, and Marcurio had flipped to avoid it. But as he flipped, he felt the weight shift and watched in horror as the oiled leather pouch containing the Eye of Mohamara fall into Alduin’s maw. The World Eater spasmed violently and stopped in the air which allowed Marcurio to escape to a safe distance.

 

Pink lightning coursed over the World Eater. With every beat of his wings, they grew longer and wider. A second set of horns grew behind his original pair, as his neck lengthened. Alduin’s entire body grew larger, more covered in his warped scales, vicious spikes grew out from his tail at intervals. When his transformation was complete, the World Eater was three times his previous size and covered in a persistent pinkish-red glow. In between his eyes, Marcurio could see Mohamara’s Eye, somehow embedded in the dragon’s brow.

 

**”What is this power?”**  Even the World Eater was stunned by his transformation and gave voice to the emotion of the mortals down below. Alduin beat his wings with great force, and kicked up a hurricane-force gale from the effort—everything and one who was not anchored to the ground at the time went flying away. Marcurio, in the air at the time, went positively  _soaring_. He flew over the mountains and didn’t’ have the power to slow down until he was over the plains of Whiterun.

 

“Okay. So.  _That happened_.”

 

\- -

 

“Um, the Master can’t come to the slate right now, can I take a message?”

 

Yagraz’s expression was one of elemental unamusement. She held up her micro-slate to the side of her face not being healed for burns and processed the information she had just been told. It was annoying enough that short-stuff’s slate had been answered by that High Elf follower of his—the Caller. “What is he doing that he can’t talk to me?”

 

Esbern and Yagraz’s regeneration ring saw a lot of business in the aftermath of Alduin’s rampage. She put off her own healing so that the children who had been burned could get treated first. The Code demanded such under item forty-four: Prioritize the health of the young, for they are the future.

 

“He’s flying the ship.”

 

“Flying the--” Yagraz had to yank her head out of Esbern’s healing spell to pinch the bridge of her nose quickly. The Nord man let her express her annoyance before returning to his Restoration. “He  _does_  remember that he doesn’t have his airship license, right?”

 

There was a series of frightened screams on the other side of the call, the sound of wood on stone, and a distant Khajiit shout about how being ‘too low!’ When she spoke again, the Caller was certainly shaken ever so slightly. “I guessed as much.”

 

“Can he  _land_  the ship so he can talk? It’s an emergency.”

 

“I’ll ask him, just a moment.”

 

Yagraz waited, and watched the Reachmen, women, and children explore Sky Haven temple. Some of the kids had been born in the Forsworn camp at the foot of the Karthspire, and had never been past the ‘giant head’. On the other end of the call, she heard more screams and an awful crash and sighed at the sound.

 

At least it wasn’t as bad as that time Mohamara had crashed the flyer’s-ed airship into a porcelain store. But the concept of ship insurance wouldn’t be invented for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years.

 

“Okay! I’m here, what’s up, who’s dead?” Short-stuff’s voice came through the call at last. “I’m in the Pale right now, but send me a picture and I can pop over there right away.”

 

“Short-stuff no one’s dead. Yet. Slick’s still MIA, but he’s a slippery eel, he’ll be fine.” Yagraz came  _dangerously_  close to lying, but avoided by clever use of confidence. “But we’ll  _all_  be dead soon. The World Eater showed up again.” Her face was finally healed, and Esbern moved his way to fix her busted arm. “And he got ahold of your artifact thingy. It gave him a  _huge_  power boost, also made him like five times edgier.”

 

“...Well, shit.”

 

The Orc nodded at her friend’s sentiment, for it was hers as well. “Yeah. Can you like… shut it off, or something?”

 

“I can  _try_ , but that’s… that’s Champion stuff, Yagraz. I don’t have one of those. I’ll ask my dad, see if he has any useful advice for stolen artifacts.”

 

The Orc winced as her bones were snapped back into place and fused. “Didn’t you get his artifact stolen or something?”

 

“...Damnit. And I don’t think I have Uncle Hircine’s number to ask him to give it back. Gah!”

 

Yagraz snapped her fingers into the micro-slate. “Hey, Nirn to short-stuff. Alduin’s out there, supercharged and kicking everybody’s ass, including mine. Family drama takes a back-seat to that.”

 

There was a ‘new caller added’ blip, which surprised both parties on either side of the call. When Yagraz stopped to look at the call servitor’s interface, she saw the small picture of a sleeping Mohamara with a teddy bear, and a new photo. A stained glass hourglass, with the attached name ‘Bad Dragon Daddy’.

 

Akatosh, she realized. Dazed, she returned the micro-slate to her ear.

 

“Um… hi?”

 

Deep breathing from the other line, not Mohamara’s, filled the call for a second before an elderly man’s voice spoke through the call. “What. The fuck. Did you do. To my son.” Akatosh’s voice echoed unnaturally in Sky Haven temple, but no one but Yagraz seemed able to hear it.

 

“Uncle Akatosh, hi, I didn’t do anything, he did it to himself,” Mohamara spoke alarmingly quick, all in one breath.

 

“Alduin accidentally ate short-stuff’s artifact, that’s it.” The surreal nature of talking to  _Akatosh_  on a call kept Yagraz subdued.

 

“He  _ate_  my eye?!”

 

“ _You_  are going to be lucky if I deign not to eat  _you_ , time-streaming wretch,” Akatosh snapped, and produced a sharp note of feedback in response. “Alduin is dangerously off-balance at his current power level, he poses a threat to himself and the Aurbis itself-- _you did this_  with your reckless acquisition of power. Fix this, before  _I do_.”

 

Akatosh hung up, and the two friends stayed on the line for a minute in total silence.

 

“You know what, this actually makes me crashing the galleon into the side of a mountain  _slightly_  better by comparison….”

 

\- -

 

Serana hadn’t seen the sun in forever, even though from her memory it had only been hours. It was as it had always been for her—harsh, merciless, blinding. The reflection of the sun’s light on the snow around her prison cave made it all the worse. But the company she’d made when she was freed helped a bit.

 

When Serana, weak from apparently centuries without feeding, had emerged from her coffin to find herself outnumbered by members of some cult, she expected to be taunted and set on fire. Instead, five of the six of them had bowed their heads and begun to pray for her. A chant for the dead, and how they would mourn for her because  _someone_  had to. Either they were genuine in their offer to grieve on her behalf, or they were  _profoundly_  talented actors.

 

If she hadn’t been about to die, she might have accepted their offer. The sixth of their merry band, in armor at least, had moved in to raise a hammer to finish the weakened Volkihar off. But he was stopped by a High Elf among the pink-robed people.

 

“Wait! She isn’t dead,” he’d said.

 

“She’s a  _vampire_ ,” the Nord said back to him.

 

“But she’s  _not dead_. My detect dead magic items aren’t picking her up!” The High Elf stepped closer to Serana and knelt down near her. “If she’s a vampire but not dead, that means she’s a daughter of Coldharbour. One of the original vampires.”

 

_He knew_ , Serana realized. The High Elf knew what that meant. That thought filled her with a palpable horror, almost enough to let her get to her feet.

 

“That means she’s stronger than any the vampires we killed on the way in—and that we should take her out while she’s weak!” The Nord seemed frustrated beyond words, considering how he bashed his head into the shaft of his warhammer. “C’mon, I was  _this close_  to respecting you, Orthorn!”

 

Orthorn, the High Elf, offered his hand to Serana. “I can’t undo what Molag Bal did, and I don’t know if it was something you wanted. But you’re still alive, so there is a chance for things to get better for you. We’d like to help you if you want help?”

 

She expected to see pity in the High Elf’s eyes. Serana was ready to spit her last at that pity. But instead, she saw pain. Perhaps the High Elf had some unnatural empathy, perhaps he’d experienced the same horrible situation she had. Serana had been so unprepared for the possibility that she was stunned, at a loss for words. If her snark tutor ever caught wind of this, she’d have to start sarcasm lessons from the very beginning again.

 

Naturally, she accepted Orthorn’s hand and the offer implied therein.

 

As her new friends, one more surly than the others led the way out, they talked. The ones in pink were servants Llorona, goddess of kindness. At least, she assumed it was a goddess, they avoided gender pronouns when speaking of Llorona, but the name and their pink attire gave off a feminine vibe. The Nord in armor was a warrior-priest of Stendarr and was visibly pissed off that Serana wasn’t a pile of ashes the entire way out. None of them even questioned the massive arcane scroll on her back.

 

While the sun was an unfortunate thing to emerge to find, the sight of a  _flying_  ship crashing into a nearby mountain proved refreshing.

 

“Well, don’t see that every day,” she’d commented. “So, someone finally figured out how to apply levitation magic to vehicles? Awesome.” The Elder Scroll on her back twitched, which alarmed her. Every few seconds it would tug on its own toward the site of the crash. Serana didn’t know much about Elder Scrolls, but she surmised that the damn thing  _moving on its own_  was a sign from the gods. “We… um, should probably make sure they’re okay.”

 

Not even the Stendarrian objected to her suggestion.

 

\- -

 

The sentiment shared by all the disparate groups of mages that were being transported on the Column Fall was that: They didn’t want Mohamara flying the ship anymore. How they intended to get a galleon back to sea without flying was still being decided upon by the various factions.

 

“All the wonder out of making an entire ship, with a heavy load mind, fly seems to have gone away,” Mohamara commented to his other self while he held the bottle for Jode’s meal. Orchendor rolled his eyes while Jone drank his lunch happily. “I didn’t see any of  _them_  helping….”

 

“They’re  _novices_ , some only know one spell,” Orchendor fired back. “None of them even knew about Mysticism before Khajiit told them!”

 

The two halves of the same tojay were in the quarters designated for the minders for each faction of novices, they represented the Pink Coats—naturally. Most of the minders were barely at the apprentice level. Most of the Pink Coats that had joined him for his trip to Winterhold were at high apprentice, low adept level—and represented the faction with the greatest Restoration skill.

 

None of the novices had taken Mohamara seriously when he’d first introduced himself as the Pink Coats’ leader, more than one had even pet him as if he were an overgrown house cat. It had been so long, he’d actually started to get used to people not touching him without permission. Everyone assumed the eight foot tall, ridiculously handsome even while dressed in all-pink J’zargo to be the leader.

 

But casually lifting every single one of them into the air with Mysticism seemed to prove his claims to their satisfaction.

 

The kittens’ meal was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Master, Orthorn and his team are here,” whispered a Pink Coat student through the door. “And they’re accompanied by a Vigilant of Stendarr.”

 

Mohamara passed Jode and her bottle over to Orchendor and snapped his fingers as he stood. Chillrend escaped its linen wrap and floated behind the pinker tojay as he left the room. On the deck, the five Friends sent to help the Dawnguard stood. Mohamara could sense no fear, no compulsion, nothing that could indicate they were coerced.

 

But there, bold as brass, was a Vigilant of Stendarr, standing with his arms crossed and glaring at anyone and everyone who dared approach him. There was a woman in a strange cuirass of light armor—it resembled spider webs almost. She had a hood up and had a hauntingly familiar scroll on her back.

 

When Orthorn and the others of his acolytes saw Mohamara however, they closed ranks around the new woman. This concerned the tojay but became even worse when he saw the new woman’s eyes.

 

Instinctively, Chillrend whipped around and flew at the vampire’s face point-first as if it were an arrow launched from a bow. There was no hesitation. Similarly, there was no hesitation for Orthorn to produce a strange dagger into which his red morpholith fit and deflect the malachite-stahlrim sword before it struck.

 

Before, there was bickering among the novices about what to do next, but after the clash of metal on glass there was silence. “Orthorn,” Mohamara said and forced himself to be patient. “Why did you do that? Do you want me to say the Mourner’s Chant for her? You ought to have done that yourself.”

 

“She does not need the Mourner’s Chant, Master,” Orthorn said back, defiant. “She is not dead.”

 

Chillrend spun around the mizzenmast like a flying circular saw. The Khajiit, less than half Orthorn’s height, crossed his arms and only briefly looked at the elf in between meeting the vampire’s eyes. “Is she not?”

 

“She is a daughter of Coldharbour, Master. And has accepted our help.” Orthorn held his free hand over his chest. “She hasn’t harmed any of us, and even suggested we come here to help if we could.”

 

Mohamara’s Merridian instinct to kill undead was stymied by this information. Daughters of Coldharbour were women who had been violated by Molag Bal personally and emerged as the first vampires. Each one was unique, with powers that not even other daughters of Coldharbour would possess. It seemed that the one Orthorn had found had the unique gift of being a  _living vampire_.

 

The Merridian in him demanded her death, but the Sphere of Kindness in him automatically reached out and found in the vampire frayed bonds. A betrayal that wore the face of someone she knew as ‘Mother’, a father so distant she no longer remembered what made him happy or why she wanted him to be happy.

 

Mohamara fought the Sphere’s instinct to search her bonds—as a daughter of Coldharbour, she’d seen enough unwanted contact.  Chillrend ceased its sawblade spin and gently floated back to Mohamara.  The weapon hovered directly behind the tojay, who forced himself to bend at the waist.  “My apologies, madam.  I acted in ignorance, and ask forgiveness.”

 

“Well… that’s not something I thought I’d ever see.  A Moon Bishop trained in the Psijic ways, asking  _me_  for forgiveness.”  The vampire placed one hand on her waist and gestured with the other while she spoke.  “Frankly, I’m a bit tired of impossible things happening all at once, mind cutting it out?”

 

As if her request had provoked some spite within it, the scroll on her back tore itself free and sailed through the air to crack Mohamara in the head once he rose from his bow.  Everyone on the deck watched, stunned, as the tojay fell over unconscious, bleeding from the nose and the scroll landed on his torso.

 

All eyes turned to Serana, who looked at them, the unconscious tojay, the scroll, and back to the crowd.  With an innocent expression, she pointed her thumb at the Vigilant of Stendarr who was pinching the bridge of his nose.  “He did it.”

 

\---

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Among the night’s children, a dread lord will rise.  And then get knocked the fuck out.


	52. The Sun Scroll

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, baby, do you know what that's worth?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, I'm really starting to love absurdism. If I ever get published, this sort of stuff could be argued to have any number of English teachers arguing what I'm trying to say when in reality I'm doing this on purpose to mess with y'all half the time.

  
  
\- - -  
  
**Chapter 52:** The Sun Scroll.  
  
The scroll refused to leave Mohamara’s side. Every time it got more than two feet away, it would halt as if affixed by a chain. Even Serana, the strongest person around by dint of vampiric power, could only cause Mohamara to be dragged along after the scroll in her attempts to take it back. The problem only got worse when Orchendor, curious as to what had happened, come out onto the deck as well. Mohamara, dragged by the scroll, promptly sailed through the air and knocked the emaciated Khajiit out as well.  
  
This left Serana with two unconscious Khajiit bound to an Elder Scroll, and two _incredibly_ upset Khajiit kittens. Cat lovers from among the novices rushed out to calm the bawling Jone and Jode—both too young to understand that ‘Momamama’ wasn’t seriously hurt, just knocked out. Naturally, a crowd of people did not in any way help two panicking kittens calm down.  
  
But J’zargo finally came up from below-decks, and he put an end to the nonsense. He took the scroll and floating blessed one(s) in one hand, and the kittens in the other. His hands were huge, they could potentially have fit all four Khajiit.  
  
When the Third Servitor returned to the deck after putting the cats away, he found the novices hesitantly approaching Serana and the Friends to ask questions. But once J’zargo returned, the Nord vampire broke off the conversation to talk to him.  
  
“Hey, thanks for not like… assuming the worst. It wasn’t a good look, and could have easily gone messy.”  
  
J’zargo, easily a ton heavier than the vampire could lift, and two feet taller, waved her off flippantly. “J’zargo assumed nothing. Little vampiress posed no threat to the blessed one—if she did, then the First and Second of the blessed one’s Servitors would have told J’zargo.” He leaned his head back with a smug look. “And little vampire would be extremely dead.”  
  
“Hoo, confident aren’t we?” Serana placed one hand on her hip and gestured with the other. “And who are the first and second servitors, then? Them?” She pointed at the Friends.  
  
J’zargo shook his head. “The First Servitor resembles a scuttling crab and manages the blessed one’s affairs. The Second resembles a snake and guards the blessed one’s person. J’zargo is the Third, and proclaims the glory of the blessed one.” The cathay-raht sized Aedric creature looked up to see Qorach slither his way down the aft mast and into the cabin. “Destroying you is not this one’s duty, and would shine none of the blessed one’s glory on the world.”  
  
She squinted up at the smug yet serene Aedric creature. “Well… glad that ‘destroying me’ isn’t on your itinerary, at least.”  
  
J’zargo nodded. “Now, destroying the vampiress’ papa, _that_ would be something J’zargo could do no problems.”  
  
Suddenly the little Nord vampire was all knives and coiled springs. “What did you say?”  
  
The Aedric creature waved her off. “Not right _now_ of course, he has not rejected the blessed one’s kindness. But he will, J’zargo is sure of it.”  
  
Serana’s hand drifted to the elven dagger she kept hidden under her cuirass and curled one lip over her fangs. “And what ‘kindness’ would your blessed one offer that he’d reject?”  
  
Totally unafraid, J’zargo met her angry eyes. “The chance to give up all the power he’s built up, be absolved of all the crimes he has committed, and to start over. To be reborn as a mortal man, free of Molag Bal’s shackle, and to be free of the all-consuming hunger that drives him.”  
  
The vampire’s eyes expressed confusion more than anger after hearing that. “It can’t be that easy,” she said at last. “Or someone would have figured out how to do that earlier.”  
  
“The blessed one’s power over life is shared by one other force in all the Aurbis. Meridia, the Daedra of the Day.” Somehow, the creature shaped like a Khajiit became _even more_ smug. “Does Meridia strike the Nord like someone who would experiment and find the solution to vampire problem when _exploding them_ works just as well?”  
  
Serana seemed at a loss for a snarky reply. So, she settled for a confused question. “How do you even know these things?”  
  
“J’zargo is outside of time. He sees the beginning and the end of his story, and all the chapters in between. It is how he knows how irresistible to mortals he is,” the Aedric creature paused to look over his shoulder and wink at a group of novices on the poop deck that had ogled him for a few minutes, “and how he knows many more things. There are no surprises for J’zargo, but mortals can make new surprises perhaps.’’  
  
The vampire screwed her face up to glare at J’zargo. “So my father… he could still choose to change?”  
  
J’zargo shook his head. “Harkon is not a mortal, he doesn’t get to control his own story anymore. J’zargo didn’t call it Molag Bal’s shackle for nothing, the Nord understands?” The cat-like creature crossed his arms and his smug expression diminished just a bit. “But this one doesn’t know the Nord’s story all that well—after this, we go different paths for a little bit. Perhaps she will find the right words to say to Harkon, that he will change his ways. J’zargo hopes so.”  
  
“So what—I have the power to change my story? Even though I’m immortal?”  
  
“Because you—unlike Harkon, unlike the Nord’s mother, and even unlike others in her position such as Vivec—you remember what it was like to _be_ mortal. You have not allowed Molag Bal to make you into something wicked.”  
  
The vampire put her chin into the crook between her thumb and pointer finger. “So… if I can help my father remember what it was like to be mortal, he can choose for himself again, and that would give him a higher chance of accepting your blessed one’s workaround cure. Yeah, I can see how the odds are stacked against me there.”  
  
J’zargo shrugged. “This one wishes the Nord good luck. And advises her to accept the help of Orthorn when offered—he is skilled at doing impossible things.”  
  
\--  
  
While they were unconscious, the two halves of Mohamara unconsciously moved toward the scroll. Meridia’s programming to cling tight to objects near them while sleeping served a useful purpose--it drove them to grasp at each other and the Elder Scroll between them.  
  
The Scroll sparked with white-gold lightning, which branched out to the two halves of the same dumbass, and imparted a Vision.  
  
They dreamed of darkness. Then suddenly, a shaft of light. There, a scruffy looking [Colovian ](http://en.uesp.net/wiki/Skyrim:Septimus_Signus)man dressed as a Twenty-First Era hobo sat, and looked up at both of them at the same time, even though they were on opposite sides of each other.  
  
“Imagine the dark, and the light that contrasts it,” said the Imperial, breathless and long-winded at the same time. “In the dark lurks the fear-inspiring monsters and in the light is safety. But the reverse is also true, for the light takes away the power to know a monster from a man.”  
  
The light faded and lit itself again immediately. The same man sat on a stool, in a striped shirt, beret, scarf, sunglasses, and smoking a cigarette from an excessively long holder. “The key difference between a monster and a man,” said the Colovian in a false High Rock accent, “is hope. Men may hope and may grow their ideas to share with others. But monsters lose their hope and thus lose themselves.”  
  
Once more the light flickered, and when the Nord appeared once more he wore glasses, a turtleneck sweater, and a sports jacket, and sat in an armchair. “The, uh--the main, er, um, problem here _is_ , you see,” the man had suddenly become evasive and puttered about aimlessly as he spoke. “That monsters can _become_ men again. Um, y-your see, er, _despair_ can make monsters of men, and um, hope make men of monsters. But uh, is it, hmm, is it wrong to _be_ a monster? Is--excuse me, it right to _be_ a man?”  
  
The light flickered again, and the Colovian sat on a simple wooden chair in a white cassock, with a strange white cap on his head. He spoke with a Bruma accent when he spoke next, “monsters may love, men may hate, beauty flows from both of them. The distinction, men and monsters, light and darkness, paradise and damnation, Aedra and Daedra, mortal and immortal, are _false_. It is like unto considering ones left and right hands separate things when the reality is that they are instruments of the _whole_.”  
  
The light flickered, and when it returned, all previous incarnations of the man stood in differently colored shafts of light, doing an interpretive dance around the all-white Colovian who suddenly sported sunglasses and whose chair spun slowly in place. A bizarre [song ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bo2cntlYRK0)played for a little over a minute, then the light flickered again.  
  
There sat the man, still as scruffy as ever, in an all-black suit and tie, his face inscrutable from a tipped down stupid-as-all-fuck looking hat. “The Wheel is the king of falsehoods, my dude. It pretends to be, like, the Whole, but is only the imaginings of what the Whole could be, bro.” The Imperial tilted his head up and revealed the lower half of his face to the light. “One way to see the Whole, heh, is to look at it from outside. Nice. But another is to, you know, find the primarch axis, the hub of the hub. The point around which the Wheel turns--so its falsehood may be seen clearly, dude.”  
  
Rapidly, the lights began to flicker and the versions of the same man changed with them. “The hub of the hub is broken, unfinished, out of place.” “It lies discarded, and the world is wounded to serve its function.” “It, um, desperately wants to, er, you see, _be_.” “But she who should have finished it became a monster.” “Dude, like, despair has made a ruin of the plan.”  
  
The profound moment was ruined by a pronounced slurping noise, followed by a gargling sort of sound. Mohamara, Orchendor, and the fashion-changing Colovian looked over to see Sheogorath seated on a movie-theatre chair. In one hand, he held a huge bucket of cheese popcorn, and in the other, he had a fountain drink. It was his drawing on the dregs of the drink that caused the noise. The Mad God grinned at the people who took offense to his presence, unhinged his jaw, and scooped some popcorn into it.  
  
“It just love Aedric movies,” he said once he’d swallowed the popcorn whole without chewing. “Such high art!”  
  
“Hold on, let me fix this.” Mohamara found the light switch and changed the man’s setting to his beret-wearing version. Then he trotted over, took the stool out from under the Imperial, and chucked it at Sheogorath. “Keep your fucking mouth shut while we’re watching the movie, asshole!”  
  
The Mad God had his mouth open at the time, so the stool flew into his mouth and was promptly swallowed. “Hmm. Tastes like bleu cheese.”  
  
Since that had failed to do the job of properly chastising the Mad God, Orchendor calmly walked up and knocked the bucket of cheese popcorn out of his hand, and spilled it all over the floor.  
  
That seemed to get the message across. “No! My precious! Don’t worry, daddy’s here, daddy’ll get you all nice and clean, don’t cry.” It was surreal, to watch one of most powerful Daedra in such a tizzy over popcorn. He was on his knees in short order and picked each one up with a set of tweezers to put them back in the bucket.  
  
And when he was done, Orchendor spilled the bucket a second time.  
  
\--  
  
The Master’s daughter came to Qorach while it guarded the two halves of her father. The Big Moon was growing so fast--he knew that fact alone would cause the Master great pain. She couldn’t speak very well in the low places, where mortals yapped at each other to convey information, but she had learned from watching ‘Momamama’ how to speak in the high spaces, with the force that called itself The Old Way.  
  
She imparted ideas of fear, to Qorach. She had seen her pink Momamama hang limply in the air and strike her skinny Momamama. Mario wasn’t around to help, and Qorach had not seen it a dire enough threat to intervene--but she was still afraid. Her fear filled her up and spilled over into the Little Moon, too young to understand it, and the fear became a feedback loop.  
  
Jode asked Qorach in The Old Way how she could not be afraid. The metal snake’s answer confused her: Treat the fear like pork. Gobble it up, and make it into fuel for action. Too much fear would paralyze her--and if she let the fear move her it would lead her down a path unbecoming the Big Moon.  
  
On some level, Jode understood that she could do a better job at protecting herself than Momamama could--someone mean had stolen Momamama’s claws and wouldn’t give them back, but she still had hers. Grandpa had taught her some things with how to use her claws, but there was still more to learn. Qorach, though a snake, was made of strong stuff so it let her test her fangs and claws on its scales so she could learn from doing.  
  
In The Old Way, Qorach made sure to squash any notions she had about protecting the Master or her brother on her own. J’zargo, Qorach, and Momamama’s Friends were all there to help her.  
  
But she was the Big Moon, so her natural response was to try and bite Qorach’s head.  
  
Jone became fussy, so Yehochanan crawled down from his nest in the rafters of the ship to comfort the Little Moon. The clacking of the spider-crab’s claws always seemed to amuse him. The smell of blood distracted Jode from gnawing upon Qorach’s head. Momamama’s bloody nose had opened up again somehow, and with Momamama hurt and Mario nowhere to be seen, she was determined to take charge.  
  
Jode released Qorach’s head and trotted over to Momamama’s bed. She’d seen her father heal people before--and even experienced it once or twice. Though she had never done it before, she was filled with the queer confidence of youth that things simply could be done from wanting to do them. And unlike other children, she was not wholly bound by the rules of the world--she was the Big Moon. So when she got to Momamama’s pink body, she climbed up to his head and licked the side of his nose. The bleeding seemed to stop, but Jode was not satisfied, she began to purr and knead her paws into Momamama’s shoulder. Grandpa had taught her to do these things when she was hurt, so she would use them to help Momamama.  
  
“Well, would you look at that. Either you’re one of those… alfie Khajiit or you’re the smartest house cat I’ve ever seen in my life.” The strange Nord woman entered the cabin near-silently and approached the bed where the Khajiit and scroll lay. “Still out cold? Usually not a good sign. But none of his students seem worried much abou-...” Jode watched the Nord woman survey the room and lock her eyes on Yehochanan playing his castanet claws for baby Jone. “What in Oblivion is _that_? And how can it carry a tune better than most bards?”  
  
Yehochanan paused in his performance to whirl around and clack his claws at the Nord, before turning back to Jone.  
  
\--  
  
Sanguine’s parties were not to be missed. Every Prince, from Azura to Vaermina attended simply to have their whims catered to for an evening. As Sanguine’s realms were transfinite in number, one for every appetite, everyone could get what they wanted. Sanguine himself had provided ‘fun’ for every decadence, hunger, or gnawing need--but what he found odd satisfaction in doing was facilitating the scandalous. And in over twenty-five kalpas, nothing was as scandalous as an Aedra visiting Oblivion to speak with her Daedric family. The Lord of Revelry made an overblown excuse that he had to attend to keep his other guests from sensing the Lady of Love and attempting something foolish, but in reality, it was to bear witness to the spectacle.  
  
The meeting space for such scandalous rendezvous was a fine restaurant from a time not yet to come to Nirn. Sanguine was quite pleased with his work on the carpets and drapes--he didn’t often work with velvet.  
  
Naturally, the matriarch of the family arrived first. Azura, in her Dunmer aspect with pink-tinged white hair that dragged on the floor, with rose petals mixed into the strands. She couldn’t assume her usually beautiful shape on account of Vivec’s curse, but what she lost in traditional beauty she gained in regality.  
  
Nocturnal arrived with neither pomp or fanfare, she stepped out of the shadows and made for the table that was set for them, seemingly annoyed that her precious time would be wasted waiting for her sisters to arrive.  
  
Meridia appeared in blinding light, as a Colovian woman with hair made from light and a gown the colors of the rainbow. Before Vivec’s curse, she had been the most regal of any of Azura’s line, and she wore it better than her mother in Sanguine’s opinion.  
  
The guest of honor, Mara, deigned to play Sanguine’s game. He had taken the role of the waiter for their ‘evening meal’ motif, so when she arrived she went first to the front desk to ring the bell and be shown to her table. Mara took the shape of a Breton woman, older looking than Azura, and large. She wore a comfortable, but only middlingly fashionable outfit for the meeting, and made small talk with her host as they approached the table. Before they arrived, Mara dropped a bombshell on Sanguine and her family as they were just barely in earshot.  
  
“My plus one will be arriving shortly, could we have another chair?”  
  
“Oh, but _of course_ , ma’am,” Sanguine replied with a bow. “It will just be a moment.”  
  
While Sanguine created the fifth chair, he pulled Mara’s chair out for her as was expected of a gentleman. Mara frowned when she looked over the family table and checked over her shoulders for something, apparently missing. “Where is my nephew? I hoped to meet him. Perhaps even my great-niece and great-nephew?”  
  
Nocturnal arched her brow and looked across the table at Meridia, who met her gaze, defiant. “Well, sister? Where is our nephew?”  
  
Meridia said nothing, and cooly reached into her purse for her micro-slate. “A sixth chair, Sanguine,” she told their host imperiously. With grace, she dialed and held the micro-slate up to speak. “Send someone to pick up my son. The less mortal-looking version of him, so that someone can watch my grandchildren.” Meridia set the device back into her purse and impassively looked over to the youngest Azuran daughter.  
  
“You should think to include him in our gatherings more,” Azura said while she examined the menu. “Kindness would frankly help even out the apathy of your sister, and your domineering nature.”  
  
“I’m not apathetic,” Nocturnal ground out between clenched teeth. “I just don’t _care_ about most of what you two talk about.”  
  
“Sisters, mother, we speak so rarely, can’t we remember that we love each other for one night?” Mara pleaded with her family and was met with annoyed silence. “Sister, your temple was recently restored I hear--do you need help getting your backlogged work done?”  
  
Nocturnal gently shook her head. “No, but thank you. I’m used to dealing with these backlogs, every Era it seems someone tries to block my influence on the world.” She winked at Mara and inclined her head with a smug grin. “But if my current debtor keeps to his terms, perhaps that won’t happen as often anymore.”  
  
“I’m so happy for you!”  
  
“And I too am glad you won’t be forced to sit back and watch your garden wither,” Azura chimed in and placed one hand, heavy with rings, on her Night daughter’s hand for a moment. But of course, she could not help herself. “Perhaps, when next we meet, you and Zenithar will finally give me another grandchild?”  
  
Nocturnal’s cheer vanished in a picosecond. “Mother, Zenithar and I are _divorced_. I haven’t seen him in Eras, literally.”  
  
Meridia wisely chose to say nothing, lest Azura bring up that, technically, the Daedra of Day was still married to Kyne. After Lorkhan had died, the two had gone their separate ways to deal with the grief differently. But neither of them could bear to break the bond with the other. As far as Meridia knew, Kyne hadn’t made any moves on anyone since Morihaus’ father.  
  
The more she thought of Kyne, the more that poison that was regret ate at her.  
  
It was swiftly replaced with annoyance when she got a callback from her chamberlain. Once she answered, she conveyed that annoyance succinctly. “Speak.” The information delivered to her only deepened her annoyance. “Peryite was able to split him could we do the--...what do you mean a class 1-A complication?” The answer drove Meridia to stand, and go red in the face. “ _My son_ does not cavort with _vampires!_ ”  
  
“Meridia,” Azura said and set her menu down. That one word seemed to take the fire out of Meridia’s rage, and the Lady of Infinite Energies sat down. “Your son has been neglected, abused, and shown affection by proxy his whole life. A bit of rebellion is _acceptable._ Ensure that it isn’t romantic, he’s to be married and I won’t have an adulterer in this family.”  
  
There was no use arguing with someone whose every decision--every action--was a tautology, as all three daughters knew well.  
  
“...Fine, if we can’t get the Scroll to let him go until he’s completed that stupid prophecy, just bring my grandchildren. Question his chamberlain about the vampire, and bring the answer when you bring the kittens.”  
  
Sanguine popped into the scene briefly once Meridia’s call was ended. “So… nix the sixth chair, bring in two high chairs?”  
  
“High chair and a cushion,” Meridia gracefully corrected, and then began to visibly stew in anger when their host was gone once more.  
  
No one was going to place their orders until all the additional guests had arrived, so the four of them sat in an ever so slightly awkward silence. The silence came to an end with the bell ringing at the ‘restaurant’s front desk again. Presumably, Mara’s plus one had arrived.  
  
At first, neither of the Day and Night sisters or Azura herself recognized the man that Sanguine escorted in. He was tall--taller than any Elf that walked the earth and took the shape of a blond Nord man. But he didn’t wear Nord fashion--he wore snakeskin boots that curved up at the toe, denim jeans and jacket, a denim shirt and a belt buckle with the symbol of a double-headed ax. In the crook of each arm, he carried one of the Moons. Jode played with his bolo tie, and Jone was enraptured by how his massive pinch-front hat was larger than the Little Moon’s head.  
  
Mara grinned ear to ear as the kittens were placed in their seats. They seemed to be placated with playing with the newcomer’s tie and hat, or perhaps the word ‘grandma’ and ‘food’ had been used to win them over. It didn’t seem to matter to the kittens as Sanguine stood to wait for the orders.  
  
Once they were given, and the food was formed from creatia, the Lord of Revelry left the family, plus one, to their business.  
  
“Daughter, introduce us to your… associate.” Azura stirred her rosé and looked the newcomer over once more. Something about him seemed familiar to both her and Meridia, but neither could place it.  
  
“Mind iffin’ I introduce myself?” The newcomer put his hat back on, a subtle dig at Azura’s position of authority, and grinned at the other three adults at the table. “Me an’ Mara’ve been goin’ steady, an’ she wanted me ta meet Y'all.” His dulcet tones, his linguistic choices, his _ar-ti-cu-lation_ offended Azura’s sensibilities visibly.  
  
“Mother, sisters, babies, since Akatosh wouldn’t know commitment if it punched him repeatedly in the face, I ended my relationship with him a long while ago.” Mara rested her hand on the newcomer’s and smiled pleasantly. “This is my boyfriend, Talos.”  
  
Talos tipped his hat to the three of them in turn. “Howdy.”  
  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might be wondering why I made Talos into a cowboy.
> 
> ...
> 
> Well, seeya.


	53. Where Mohamara Isn't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapter about the other characters in the story.

\---  
**Chapter 53:** Where Mohamara isn't.  
  
There was silence in the Blue Palace on the first day of Morning Star. A new year had started, the servants were given the day off with a considerable bonus in their wages the night before. Even the workers who repaired the Palace from Alduin’s attack were given the day off by the Jarl’s order. She’d had to override her steward to do it, too.  
  
Elisif’s morning started with prayer--first to the Divines, and then to Meridia. She’d quietly accepted the worship of the Lady of Infinite Energies after Alduin’s attack on Solitude--it was the Lady’s Knight that had bought them much needed time to save the lives they had. The would-be High Queen kept a shrine to the only truly ‘good’ Daedra as far as she was concerned in her quarters, under three different locks and keys.  
  
Breakfast, or at least an attempt at breakfast, was had in the kitchens. It had been years since Elisif had made her own food, so she struggled more than a little. But thankfully a nobleman who had come to pay his taxes, unaware of the Jarl’s impromptu holiday, showed her how to make a lovely sugary-sweet fondue. It did the Jarl’s heart good that more nobles were opting to pay their taxes in foodstuffs to help the war effort, but why the strange man in his orange and purple jacket had opted to do so in thousands of tiny wheels of cheese sealed in orange and purple wax, she couldn’t fathom.  
  
They were certainly delicious, even if they made everything taste like social anxiety for an hour afterward.  
  
With her morning meal done, Elisif was going to retire to her chambers. Perhaps she would read one of the books recently imported from High Rock, or just nap with her enchanted cloak to keep her warm and cozy. In the end, neither of those would come to pass as her holiday was interrupted by he who knew no rest of late: General Seneca Tullius.  
  
The General arrived and requested a private audience, not a difficult request given the lack of business on new year’s day. He joined the Jarl in her personal quarters, where her private fireplace kept the room as warm as her cloak would keep Elisif herself.  
  
She acted as a hostess should, and poured the Nibanese man a drink--brandy she had purchased from Bruma--before she took her seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visitation, General?”  
  
He seemed perplexed by the brandy’s special flavor, peaches but drank a mouthful before answering. “Word on the grapevine is you’ve been trying to get a tunnel from Falkreath to the Rift dug. I’m here to officially ask why, for starters.”  
  
“Well, we need to make plans for the eventual return of peacetime to Skyrim. And frankly, less of that unmelting snow fell on the southern side of the Throat of the World. It’s the narrowest point for us to dig through, so would make the most sense to start there.” The Jarl wrapped herself more comfortably in her cloak, for she had poured no brandy for herself. “And also because I don’t want our men in Falkreath becoming lazy in this time between the great battles.”  
  
Tullius nodded, as if he saw the logic behind the decision, and drank some more. “Those sound like good, well-rehearsed lines. Perhaps they’re even legitimate justifications that you came up with after the fact.” From his satchel, the General produced three rolls of parchment. “Except my runners intercepted three different letters between you and Jarl Laila. So would you care to try again?”  
  
Elisif’s expression was perfectly blank while she arranged her hands and head into a shocked position. “Why, I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you’re talking about. Jarl Laila is a Stormcloak supporter and on the clear other side of the province. How could I have gotten those letters to her at all?”  
  
“That would be what I’m here to ask about, more than the contents of the letters themselves.” The General leaned back and unrolled one of the parchment scrolls. “Clever use of the printing press, by the way, to avoid any handwriting giving away who dictated your letters. Shame Laila doesn’t have access to one.” Tulius sipped the brandy once more as he reviewed the letter. “Excellent brandy, by the way. Took some getting used to, but I’ve warmed up to it.” He regarded Elisif with a distant look. “I can respect you trying to flip Laila to the Empire’s side enough to talk terms of peace, but I’m afraid you have to stop.”  
  
“As the Military Governor of Skyrim, you hold province over the strategic operations of the Empire’s troops, and little else,” Elisif said back to him. Her teeth itched for more of that orange and purple wax-coated cheese. “Any peace talks between the two sides in this war would be the province of the civilian government.”  
  
“Yes… if the other side weren’t public Talos worshippers. I’m afraid the First Emissary has made it clear that any peace talks that don’t involve handing over one hundred percent of those Talos worshippers would be in breach of the White-Gold Concordat. At best, we could negotiate a ceasefire.”  
  
Jarl and General held a staring contest. For two minutes they struggled visually to win the impasse. But Elisif relented at last on the issue. “Why must the Thalmor insist on cocking up everything we attempt to do?”  
  
“I’m pretty sure they consider it a sport, honestly.”  
  
\--  
  
On returning to Whiterun, Yagraz decided it hadn’t been a good week for her. First, a simple trip to figure out more on killing Alduin turned into having her ass beat like a drum by said Alduin. Then, on the way back to Whiterun more Solstheim cultists tried to attack her. There was no honor in butchering them as their thoughts weren’t their own--Yagraz could feel the Thu’um clouding their thoughts. And finally, when she got back home Brenuin was sober.  
  
“Lucy got into some fights with Braith,” he said to her when she set Volendrung above the doorway. “Braith had it coming, but Lucy had a blade and wasn’t afraid of using it. Now, none of the other kids will play with her, so she sits in her room all day.”  
  
The Orc ran her gauntlet palm over her face, then started for the girl’s room. “Alright, I’ll talk to her.” Brenuin being sober meant he’d hadn’t the time to get drunk--that could have been from talking to parents, to the guards, or to Lucia about the situation. Or it could be that he literally drank out every bit of alcohol in the house. Both were very real possibilities.  
  
When she got to Lucy’s room, she instinctively wanted to go in and start addressing the problem. But she stopped herself and gently knocked on the door first. The room was Lucy’s, it was her space, and Yagraz had to respect that to be a good mother.  
  
“Lucy? You wanna talk?”  
  
Yagraz waited for a minute for an answer, any answer, because she was the adult. That’s what adults did, they showed patience. And her patience was rewarded, for after that paltry sixty seconds of waiting, the door to Lucy’s room was unlocked and the door pushed open from within.  
  
Lucy wasn’t red-faced from crying, she hadn’t destroyed all the furniture and pillows in the room. She just walked around with her blanket over her head like a cloak and returned to bed when Yagraz entered the room. The Imperial girl didn’t turn away when Yagraz crouched down by the side of the bed to be on her eye level, which surprised Yagraz. She expected Lucy to blame her for teaching the girl to use a blade.  
  
“What’s got you down, sweet-pea?”  
  
Lucy looked like she was trying to put together a puzzle, which Yagraz took to mean she was putting together words. Lucy was like that, carefully articulate. Or perhaps she didn’t have the words for what she was feeling and had to improvise.  
  
“It didn’t go how it was supposed to,” she said at last and looked down. “I didn’t do it right.”  
  
“What was supposed to happen?”  
  
The Imperial girl wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and looked down. Yagraz gently lifted her head up to meet the Orc’s eyes and asked again. “It was supposed to… they were supposed to _like_ me,” Lucy said, earnest like it was the way things obviously went. “Braith was being a bitch, and tried to pick on me, so I drew my dagger and let her know I’d cut her up. They were supposed to think I was brave!”  
  
“Did Braith have a weapon?” From the lack of reply Yagraz got from Lucia, the Companion guessed ‘no’. “Then what you did wasn’t brave. You had the weapon, you knew how to use it, you had the power and Braith didn’t.”  
  
“But-!” Lucy struggled once again to find the words, and Yagraz let her. “Braith picks on everyone! She’s a bitch! And if I had the power, she was a _stupid_ bitch for trying to pick a fight.”  
  
Yagraz nodded. “Yes, she was. But you had the weapon, you had the power. The reason the other children don’t want to play with you is that they see that even if Braith doesn’t. You were willing to cut up someone who didn’t have a weapon, and that includes them.” Yagraz held Lucia’s gaze to make sure the Imperial girl understood, then continued her ‘parent talk’. “For picking a fight with someone who didn’t have a weapon, you’re not allowed to carry your dagger with you for two months. Okay?”  
  
Lucia didn’t like that, the blade had been a present, and her Uncle Mohamara had promised to enchant it for her. But she nodded.  
  
“Okay. Now, I’m not going to be in town very long, but I’m going to go ask your Shield-Auntie Uthgerd if she can teach you how to fistfight so this doesn’t happen again.” The Orc and Imperial girl hugged it out afterward. Each had come out of the interaction happy, Lucia because she got to learn how to fistfight, and Yagraz because she had proven to herself that she was a better mother than Meridia--so when she punched the Lady of Infinite Energies in the face, she could do so as the superior mother.  
  
\--  
  
Meridia had to fight the instinctual urge to hold her grandson in higher regard than her granddaughter after the family meal had concluded. Jode, the charming and chatty girl, did not fawn over Meridia nor let Meridia fawn over her. Not even Azura could compel the girl to stay in one place for too long. Nocturnal had figured out how to use one of the tassels from her robes to keep the kitten occupied.  
  
Jone, on the other hand, strongly resembled his father as an infant. Though chubbier, significantly, and not spiritually scarred from attempted cannibalism. He was far more sedentary and accepting of being the object of attention for his grandmother, great-grandmother, and great-aunts. The babbling baby particularly enjoyed crawling around in Azura’s enormous cape of hair. While her mother and her sister entertained the grandbabies, Meridia’s mind wandered. Being able to disconnect from one avatar to create thirty-three thousand more to do her myriad duties had that sort of perk.  
  
But she found herself drifting on the issues of the family that Azura had made certain were un-invited to the event: Sheogorath, Kyne, and her seven hundred forty-five thousand nine hundred forty-six daughters, as well as Kyne’s son. With Kindness rolling about inside her, she could see the flaws in her strategies regarding them all, and how many mistakes she had made over the eons.  
  
It was wrong of Meridia to assume that the love she had for Kyne would wane with the passing of kalpas--Meridia’s love endured longer than the foundations of the earth, time would have no effect. But she had been certain of its fleeting nature at the time. Because she had conflated mortal love with the love of the et’Ada; she had made the mistake that so many mortals paid for with their lives, she had assumed the gods were fundamentally like mortals.  
  
This then begot a question that she hadn’t asked herself… ever, really. Did she truly love Sheogorath? Or did she love the way he reminded her of Lorkhan? Had she kept Kyne away because she wanted Kyne to be able to grieve in peace, or because Kyne’s presence in her life would shatter her illusion?  
  
Her twin sister sensed the melancholy and passed Jode over to Talos to entertain while the Night and Day spoke to each other alone. Darkness and Light went into the facsimile of the women’s restroom for Sanguine’s realm, for it represented a place where the Lord of Revelry wouldn’t dare be caught.  
  
“Your certainty is wavering, sister,” Nocturnal told Meridia while she leaned on the polished marble counters, and looked in the mirror. “Gaining that new sphere’s made you a lot less rigid than you normally are.”  
  
“What I lose in certainty, I gain in insight,” the rainbow-dressed Daedra responded, while she imagined a cigarette to smoke creatia. “And insight begets questions, that cause loss of certainty, and so on and so forth.”  
  
“Then perhaps you ought to stop questioning yourself?” Nocturnal admired her beauty in the mirror and watched her sister’s colors dim ever so slightly from the gnawing doubt. “Don’t question yourself, what you feel, how you feel it.”  
  
Meridia dragged on her creatia-cigarette and breathed out a cloud of honeysuckle flower petals. “Were it so easy, sister.”  
  
“It _can_ be so easy, sister.” Nocturnal reached up and pinched the reflection of her sister’s cigarette, and doused it thus. “The cure for doubt is knowledge. So either seek out Mora or confront that which gives you doubt.” The Night rolled her eyes, exasperated. “Honestly, this is so unlike you--you’d probably be better off getting rid of that Kindness sphere.”  
  
“That would be what’s best for me, not what’s best for my family.”  
  
“What’s best for you _is_ what’s best for your family. That’s how Sheogorath does it! And your daughters love him! ...Like him! ...Tolerate him!” Nocturnal degraded her assessment of Sheogorath’s paternal relationship with her nieces in light of Meridia’s flat expression. “...Don’t actively try to murder him!”  
  
“Not in a way I can prove, anyway.” Meridia crossed her arms and considered the situation. “I suppose you’re right--I need to confront the problems.”  
  
“Great, good, now stop brooding. So the grandkids don’t enjoy crawling on you the way they do with me and Azura, big deal.” Nocturnal flicked her wrist dismissively and started out of the lady’s room. “Not all of us can be good with kids, you know.”  
  
It didn’t surprise her that Nocturnal totally missed the source of Meridia’s distress. Or perhaps, Nocturnal was being flippant. It didn’t matter, not to Meridia at that precise moment. Instead, she decided now was the perfect time to do what she should have done Eras ago.  
  
She reached into her purse, and began to dial on her micro-slate, then held it up to her ear. “...Yes, I’ll accept the charges. Please connect me to Syraniaheim.” There were several long minutes where the Daedra of Life stood and listened to the call ring. Certainty, as Vivec once said, is the sibling of fear--and Meridia was afraid for one long moment that she would get no answer.  
  
But the fear was proven false, as the ringing cut off abruptly, and a familiar voice spoke over the line. “Hey, Brightshine. Long time no see.”  
  
“Hello, Kyne. Do you have a moment to talk?”  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio found out, from experience, that it was harder to hide from a dragon than ‘go underground’ would have one believe. Especially when that dragon was super-charged with a transformative artifact. Alduin chased Marcurio off-and-on for days, chasing after the smell of Mohamara’s magic on him. But while the World Eater was powerful, he had lost massively in the realms of speed and maneuverability. Once he got to terrain that Alduin couldn’t just burn to the ground, it became easy to lose the World Eater on sharp turns and sudden drops.  
  
It wasn’t difficult to try and figure out where Alduin wanted him to go--eastward, where there was nothing but trees and open space for an overlarge dragon to hunt in. But Marcurio remembered the words that had gotten him through his teenage years, from his maternal grandmother: A leash could be pulled from either end.” So Marcurio used Alduin’s momentum and arrogance to lead him in a direction close enough to where he wanted, but far enough for Marcurio to control things better: the Eastmarch/Whiterun border. In the months since the Helgen Incident, a mighty lake had formed from the White River being blocked by the avalanche.  
  
Waterbreathing would be a pitifully easy spell to pull off if he hadn’t already gotten a bauble enchanted with the effect from Mohamara, so the Imperial dove into the near-freezing water and swam down to the lakebed while Alduin caught up. Marcurio hid near the base of the avalanche’s snow, where the unmelting snow and ice from the Throat of the World’s summit formed the core of an impromptu dam.  
  
It was all part of a gamble--Alduin wouldn’t deign to swim after him, he’d try to boil away the entire lake. And then Marcurio could escape in the massive steam cloud. But instead, when Alduin reared back to breathe fire into existence something happened. Rather than fire, he exhaled the very concept of heat, that burned a perfect cylinder through the water to the dam just a few feet above where Marcurio hid. The thu’um burned through the snow, and then met the unmelting snow of the summit. The blessing of Kyne within the eternal snow took in the might of Alduin’s thu’um and reflected it back at him once he stopped.  
  
From underwater, all Marcurio could see of the event was a tunnel of boiling water pass over him, then a second one erupt from the dam out to Alduin. Then the black dragon’s outline was visible as fire danced around him, and a distant explosion, followed a moment later by the colossal form of Alduin World Eater striking the surface of the water. But an opportunity was an opportunity, so he waited to see if Alduin was out cold or playing it up.  
  
The Eye of Mohamara shone like a red glowstone on Alduin’s brow while he sank into White Lake. Marcurio sped towards the fallen World Eater and aimed to do what the legendary thieves of old had done: Steal the artifact of power from the villain’s brow. Alduin was well and truly unconscious, the force of his own power reflected onto him proved too much. So when Marcurio shoved a dagger in between the Eye and Alduin’s scales, there was no resistance. Parting the Eye from the dragon, however, offered a great deal of resistance. While Marcurio struggled to pry the Eye off Alduin’s brow, the World Eater twitched. Every slight movement filled Marcurio with intense dread, for Alduin could recover at any moment.  
  
“Yer not doing that right, lad.”  
  
Marcurio jumped in the water and swallowed a mouthful of water in surprise as he realized he wasn’t alone. There, opposite him on the other side of Alduin’s enormous skull, was the Mad God. He lounged upon the World Eater like the dragon was some incredibly comfortable couch. Perhaps, to Sheogorath, Alduin was indeed. Marcurio didn’t pay Sheogorath’s sudden arrival much heed--he’d learned not to do that when the Mad God had first shown up to negotiate the marriage.  
  
“You’re tryin’ to steal the Eye, and that’s all well and good.” The Nord-appearing Daedra polished his nails upon his dual-colored jacket. “I started off the same way, and with luck, you’ll teach me grandkids the family business better’n me boy can. Butt!”  
  
Sheogorath pointed at a passing fragment of compressed ice that strongly resembled a buttock and pelvis combo before he spoke again.  
  
“Alduin stole it from you. Sonny Moe gave that Eye to you. It’s _yours_. Just think about what that means.”  
  
Marcurio considered, then looked down at the Eye. The garnet-red gem and gold feathers stood out in stark relief against Alduin’s acid-splashed black scales. Doubt gathered into one question, which Marcurio spoke into an air-bubble and pushed it toward Sheogorath: “Why would you give me a straight answer like that?”  
  
“Now, the _logical_ thing to assume would be that because _I_ told it to you it _isn’t_ a straight answer. Soon enough I’ll be yer daddy-in-law, though depending on how you and Sonny Moe hit it off that will make calling meself that awkward. But when I am, I can pull those kinds of tautology gags--those are me fifteenth favorite type of gag. Or is it a hypocrisy gag? Certainly not a hippo crisis gag, or a taught algae gag. Only Sotha Sil does those ones properly.” As if he had forgotten Marcurio was there, the Mad God did a double-take upon seeing him again. “Well? Alduin ain’t going to be napping all day! He and Vaermina don’t quite like each other, you see? Oh! You want me to answer your question before you’ll do what you really ought to be doing.” Sheogorath waved his index finger at Marcurio, like a parent chastising their child. “Normally that sort of behavior would get ya turned into seven notes of music, but that would make me boy cry. And... frankly, my wife might straight up leave me if I keep making our son cry all the time. Something about a buttes? So unlike her to mix singular and plural like that.”  
  
Marcurio could understand more and more of Mohamara’s misgivings about the match early on in their relationship the more he interacted with Sheogorath. It was like playing near a snake that he _knew_ could kill him at any time.  
  
“Anyway! It’s all dreadfully straightforward this time, I’m afraid. Simple curiosity.” Sheogorath’s voice went low, with that edge of malice that was uniquely his. “I want to see what that Eye will do to _you_ if it’s done this to Alduin.”  
  
The Eye was his, it belonged to Marcurio Tullius, he thought to himself. It was gifted to him by its creator, Mohamara Ahramani. And he wanted it _back_. Pastel pink lightning arched along Alduin’s body into the eye, and the acid-splashed scales around the gem began to ooze away. After a moment, it was free enough for Marcurio to get his fingers underneath it and try to pry it off.  
  
Naturally, the moment he finally got the Eye free, Alduin woke up.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To make it, 100%, unambiguously clear. Yes, Kyne, Merid Nunda, and Lorkhan were in a polyamorous relationship before the Mundus thing.


	54. Dogs and Cats.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter doesn't have a consistent tone! Blah!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sun, sun, Mr. Pink-Golden sun, you're such a cute kitty~

  
\---  
  
**Chapter 54:** Dogs and cats.  
  
The momentary serenity of White Lake’s surface was broken by Alduin ascending from the waters. The aura that had illuminated him before faded with every second, he seemed to grow smaller visibly, and steam rose from his hide as if he had just been boiled. Seconds after he re-entered Kyne’s domain, he looked down upon the temporary lake. Steam and bubbles rose from the surface, a terrible omen. As if by Kyne’s will, the sky rapidly darkened, and raindrops began to land upon the World Eater.  
  
From the water erupted a tornado of fire, accompanied by the keening howl of a dog Alduin had never heard before. It grew until it stretched into the clouds, whereupon it curved and broke through from above. Alduin realized too late that it was headed right for him. Fire normally didn’t have _weight_ to it, but the fire tornado that struck Alduin sent him from the sky and down to the shore of White Lake, then dug a trench with the World-Eater’s body as it continued to drive him down. At last, the tornado relented and died away. Alduin rose from the dirt, uninjured but humiliated from such a blow--while he continued to shrink. Above him, the heart of the fire tornado revealed itself.  
  
A dog made wholly from flame, easily the size of a proper dovah. There was no trace of the filthy joore who stank of the cat’s foul magic in its innards, only a hint of the gem that had once sat on Alduin’s brow at its heart. Whatever it was, it challenged him with its keening howl once more and dove at the World-Eater with fangs of fiery doom.  
  
Alduin saw this, he saw the very power he had just wielded turn against him and did the only thing that made sense. He bitched the fuck out.  
  
**”Wuld Nah Kest!”**  
  
In an instant, Alduin was in the air once more, accelerated high above the storm clouds that had served as a portent. This proved insufficient as seconds later the fiery dog broke through as well, so a second bitching out was required. And if necessary, he would continue to bitch out until he reached Skulldalfyn. The World-Eater had tasted unlimited power and squandered it with his petty revenge. The power he’d possessed had enlightened him to how little he’d had before. How constrained by Akatosh’ will he had been. But he would feast on mortal dead until he had it back until he was his father’s equal and no longer subject to his dominion.  
  
Provided, of course, that the fire-dog did not chase him to the ends of the world. A very real possibility.  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio returned to the shape of a Nibanese man, which he had longed for, for so many years. In hindsight, he had been limited in his imagination, but he still had a fondness for that shape. It was a lot easier to be fashionable when he wasn’t on fire, after all. Sheogorath didn’t seem keen to stick around since Marcurio had finally used the Eye, which was good. Foolish thoughts made him wonder if the power he had rivaled a Daedric Prince.  
  
Which was a stupid notion born of being too high on too much power all at once. But it _felt_ good to think that way. Marcurio recognized, right away that he couldn’t afford to have that kind of unrestrained power without the practiced control to keep it leashed. He’d burned down too many houses in the past trying to master Destruction magic to _not_ understand the importance of control. So he took the chain from around his neck to put away the _wondrous_ power of the Eye and paused.  
  
When he examined the Eye, something didn’t seem right. The longer he stared at it, the easier it was to put together why. Half of the Eye wasn’t the garnet-red gem and gold feathers, but a cherry that had been smooshed onto the gem, and yellow paper that had been cut to resemble feathers. Two things cemented themselves in Marcurio’s mind when he realized this.  
  
One: Sheogorath had swindled him, broken the Eye in half somehow, and made off with it.  
  
And two: That he had the power to drive Alduin World-Eater off in fear with only half the Eye.  
  
“The next time I see the Mad God,” Marcurio decided, speaking it aloud so that if Sheogorath had agents listening, he’d know, “I’m going to punch him. Directly. In the dick.”  
  
\--  
  
In the absence of the Master, it became the Caller’s duty to decide how to proceed to Winterhold. She didn’t want to do so, the Master was still with them, but he wouldn’t wake. The Scroll that vampiric witch had brought cast a spell on both halves of him, the mortal and divine, to keep them asleep. It was all she could do to keep the holy children happy when their father wouldn’t wake up and play with them. When she entreated the master’s servants for what she should do, their answers were decidedly unhelpful.  
  
“The Master trusts your judgment. You broke the shell of despair he had carried with him, and for that, you enjoy a privilege no other may have: You may speak on his behalf,” was the spider-crab’s response.  
  
“The cold eats away at the resources we have. Whatever you decide, we must move from this mountainside before the cold, or the ship’s slipping, doom us,” was the flat-snake’s answer.  
  
“J’zargo says you are capable of doing this on your own. He will support your decision, and so will the blessed one upon his waking,” was what the _ridiculously_ handsome Khajiit had to say.  
  
Before she had been the leader with the anticipation that the Master would be the final decision maker, everything she’d done at Fellglow Keep was in pursuit of what the Master would want when he was summoned. She had to dig deep and find the strength she’d had when she was Head of Restoration at the college.  
  
The Caller meditated upon what she had to do and emerged with a decision. If the original plan to fly to Winterhold couldn’t be completed, they would walk. Orthorn, his group, and the Caller all began to enchant feverishly through the night. They worked warmth and endurance into clothes and spun light into poles of wood to make then shining staves. Orthorn seemed confused as to why the Caller had three spherical morpholiths to work with while the others only had one each. She promptly slapped him on the back of the head and told him to wonder less and get more enchanting done.  
  
The Vigilant of Stendarr that had accompanied them was content to watch, but the vampiric witch… wasn’t.  
  
While the Pink Coats drew soul-thread from their own morpholiths and the Master’s, the Nord vampiress approached them, curious. “What… are you doing?”  
  
“Enchanting,” Traynda snapped as she focused on getting some Nordic knots _just right_. She was new to the form the Master himself used the most. “And it’s rather difficult to do correctly so if you would--” She stopped herself and took a deep breath. “As the Master would say, that wasn’t very cash money of me. I’m sorry.”  
  
“What’s ‘cash’?” Serana arched an eyebrow, genuinely confused by the word it seemed. The Caller stepped in to explain.  
  
“Slips of paper or other cheap material issued by a bank on the promise that if turned in it can be redeemed for an equal value of gold. So a one-septim piece of cash could be turned in for the equivalent amount of actual gold. As a way for people to have buying power without having to haul around huge sums of potentially heavy precious metals.”  
  
“Oh. That sounds… kinda stupid really.” Her sentiment was echoed by most of the Apprentice-level Friends and the coven novices who also watched the enchanting take place.  
  
“Stupid it might be, but it’s apparently the next step in the financial industry. According to the Master, as time goes by we’ll be buying things less and less with gold, and more and more with debt.” The Caller set aside one of her morpholiths to allow it to recharge. “But back to the main topic, we’re enchanting these items in the way the Master has instructed us.”  
  
“Seems a lot more work than just shoving a soul into an item with an idea of what to do.” Serana crossed her arms, not smug in her expression, but challenging in her tone.  
  
“Also more efficient,” Orthorn chimed in without looking up. “This way doesn’t rupture the soul’s outer layer, which means it doesn’t need recharging. And it doesn’t saturate the item so you can combine enchantments together for really neat effects.” He held up a boot he had just been working on. “See? I combined a water-walking enchantment with a frost enchantment to create a snow-walking enchantment so this boot won’t sink in the snow at all, but this grip-enhancing enchantment still gives it traction that can be turned off for a snow-skating effect.”  
  
The conversation took a break while every Friend and the Caller swarmed Orthorn to figure out how the High Elf had accomplished such a feat. The Caller noticed, where none of the others did, how Serana found a place to sit and watch the Friends work. She watched Serana watch them work, she saw in the vampire’s eyes hunger--but not predatory hunger. Hunger for knowledge, the hunger to figure out how they made it work. Then the Caller saw what the Master had said in his Commandments. She looked at Serana and saw a younger version of herself--eager to learn, but afraid to ask. The Master had Commanded that she share what she had with those who had less or nothing, so the Caller gestured Serana over and offered her a spherical morpholith.  
  
“If you would like, I could teach you how we do this enchantment work?”  
  
“As long as this doesn’t turn into a lesson on knitting, I’m game,” Serana replied with snark. She scooted her stool over to the Caller and frowned when the High Elf’s expression became conflicted. “Knitting is involved, isn’t it? Ugh, fine. I’m too curious about how this all works to care anymore.”  
  
Meanwhile, in the cabin where Mohamara and Orchendor were cuddling up to the Elder Scroll, Sheogorath stepped out of the pinker Mohamara’s ear with his hands behind his back. “Now then,” the Mad God muttered to himself in a voice too small for any of his son’s servitors to hear. “To see if I can use this for fun.” He began to walk toward his son’s nose with purpose when all the light seemed to leave the area.  
  
He looked up and found his granddaughter peering at him with intense eyes. The Mad God watched her go low, and wiggle to get a grip on Mohamara’s blanket. Even though it spelled an unpleasant situation for him soon, Sheogorath couldn’t help but wiggle back at her. He was too proud that his granddaughter had inherited his funky dance moves to care.  
  
J’zargo saw the big moon pounce at the blessed one’s face suddenly, and then toss about some small thing, and was happy that she had caught her first mouse.  
  
\--  
  
Meridia disliked that she had to send Jode and Jone back to the mortal world. From the perspective of Mundus they might have never left, but from hers, their time together was bitterly short. None of her daughters had intents to give Sheogorath or Meridia grandchildren, some actively abhorred the thought of being responsible for another life. And if the trend continued, that interaction might have been the only time her grandchildren were happy to see her.  
  
“So,” Azura started and put an end to Meridia’s brooding, Nocturnal’s brooding, and Mara’s chattering. “The point of this meeting. My agents in Pyandonea confirm that infiltrators from this wretched mortal organization, Aldmeri Dominion, have destroyed the stone of Ivory-Claw. That brings Mundus down to just Snow-Throat, and Ada-Mantia as confirmed operational, with Topaz-In-Name possibly being active in Akavir, my agents have been unable to confirm or deny.”  
  
Meridia shrugged. “Topaz-In-Name has to be online when we last looked in on it the reserved creatia it had was dangerously low. If it wasn’t online, Akavir would be falling into the sea like Yokuda.”  
  
Nocturnal examined her nails and said nothing.  
  
When no one would speak more on the subject, Mara spoke up. “I have been able to store enough creatia to keep Pyandonea from sinking, at least. For a little while, anyway.”  
  
The Daedra of Night scoffed. “Pyandonea was never secure in the first place--their stone was their King, and as we learned with Crystal-Like-Law, tying the stone to a mortal was never going to be a viable long-term strategy. Let it sink, and divert that creatia over to the Atmoran tower, whatever its name is.”  
  
Azura narrowed her eyes at Nocturnal, who met her mother’s gaze with defiance. “A cold stance to make, daughter mine. The volcano won’t be ready for several hundred years.”  
  
Meridia rolled her eyes. Azura hadn’t made that assertion due to the amount of labor needed to convert the volcano into a Tower, but so her prophecies would come to pass as intended.  
  
“Now, iffin ya don’t mind Madam,” Talos started. He smiled faintly when Azura’s eye twitched at the sound of his accent. “Why do y’all give half a care for Mundus? Word on the street was you don’t much like it, the whole deception by Lorkhan thing.”  
  
Azura feigned being stricken. “Nothing could be further from the truth. I have come to love mortalkind, and in some cases they are my family.” The Mother of Roses made it seem like she was enthralled by the very thought of them, but Meridia knew better. “Since that usurper, Vivec, cursed me and gained legitimacy through Clavicus Vile, I have a vested interest in ensuring that Mundus remains extant.”  
  
“So… now that yer neck’s on the line, you care enough to get involved in the situation.” Talos adjusted his hat with one finger while Azura leveled a glare at him. But he wasn’t one of her daughters, to be made to obey with gestures or words. “Mighty fine of you, Madam. I’m sure the mortals will appreciate your begrudging help.”  
  
Mara gently laid her hand on Talos’, and that seemed to stifle whatever fight the War God was plotting. She turned to look at him, serene and dispelled the entire situation in a way that no one else could have: “You want to be right more than you want Mundus to be helped right now. The ‘why’ of the situation is irrelevant if it leads to a better quality of life for everyone.” Then Love turned that same serene expression on Azura. “Isn’t that right, Mother?”  
  
Azura couldn’t stand Mara having the high ground over her, Meridia knew. So the Mother Soul would turn the perceived blame cast on herself onto one of her remaining daughters. “Yes. Though, how lamentable it is that all this scrambling is necessary. If only everyone involved in Mundus’ design had _finished their work_ , this wouldn’t have happened.”  
  
Meridia accepted the blame being cast upon her--she was better equipped to deal with the Mother Soul’s scorn than Nocturnal was. The Night would rankle at the chiding, and fight back. But Meridia knew the depth of her failure, even if she could only recently call it such. “I did what was the correct course of action at the time. Unlike you, Mother, I cannot see all ends.”  
  
The Mother Soul seemed assuaged by Meridia’s admission and visibly relaxed. “When your son completes his function, your mistake will be rendered meaningless. A temporary weakness that was corrected.”  
  
As if the distinction between Meridia and Nocturnal had never been, the Glister Witch bristled at the implications. “I thought you wished for him to join us in these meetings?”  
  
“I do. So he knows what is expected of him.” Azura’s expression was so _smug_. “I already have my script for when he meets me written, and have arranged things so that he will be ready. Having influence over Mundus due to the murderer’s curse does have some use after all.”  
  
“Mother,” Nocturnal said in an exasperated voice. “You’re not being subtle. We knew what game you were playing with when you hit him on the head with _Sun_ scroll.”  
  
Azura was quiet for a long moment before she started to pout. “It’s a _little_ clever you have to admit. Son of the Day, the Sun? Father of the Moons?”  
  
“No, it’s not clever. It’s really, _aggressively_ obvious. Plus it’s not going to work because that ‘wretched mortal organization’ have someone trying to become the Sun already. And that boy’s just too nice to try and attain heaven by violence, so he’ll lose the race.”  
  
Azura considered this assertion and flicked her hand dismissively. “Then we’ll simply need to make the boy mean enough. Perhaps taking away his children on a long-term basis--”  
  
The Mother Soul didn’t finish as suddenly she found the stabbing point of Dawnbreaker inches from her face. Meridia and Azura stared each other down, while Sanguine feasted upon creatia popcorn at the _drama_. The Daedra of Twilight’s expression was smug in the face of being threatened with a weapon, while Meridia tried to convince herself she would harm her own mother if necessary.  
  
“Very well, daughter mine. If you suddenly care enough about his happiness enough to put Mundus at risk.... We’ll go to plan B.”  
  
\--  
  
Aela felt isolated in Jorrvaskr lately. Her shield-siblings hadn’t cooled their hearts to hers, but they had renounced the blood gift they had been given. None had tried to convince her to do the same, and for that she was grateful. But she found herself alone as a wolf among her shield-family.  
  
Kodlak had advised that the blood no longer be a requirement for the Circle’s admittance, but a power that Aela could pass on to those willing to make the sacrifices responsible. The Old Man had been nothing but respectful for her choice to remain a werewolf and gave her the freedom to pass it on. But still, she was ill at ease.  
  
After months of pondering, after she watched Farkas and Vilkas leave with Yagraz as wolves and come back mere men, she could put words to that illness. Being a wolf among sheep had made her feel powerful, important even. Glory was hers and her shield-siblings by right. The power was a gift, a sign of how mighty she was that she _deserved_ to be better. And yet all but she had given it up, deemed it not worthy of _them_.  
  
That cat’s damn words haunted her sleeping and waking hours. The idea that she truly was too fragile to deal with opinions that differed from hers _galled_ her. Every time she imagined him saying it, it was different tones of disgust, condescension and in one instance total mockery of her. Tradition demanded she find solace in her shield-siblings, but they were the cause of her strife!  
  
The Silver Hand hunted them… less than before. After more than one conflict with the group, it seemed that the Hand had pieced together that most of the Circle had escaped the Huntsmaster’s blessing. That left Aela as their sole prey. The Companions stood at her flank still when the Silver Hand came for her, but with every instance, Aela felt like they were doing so out of obligation more than mutual respect.  
  
In her dreams, the cat came to her once more but didn’t speak his usual words. “Respect is a two-way street. You don’t respect anyone who isn’t a werewolf, but you want to keep on respecting your friends. And because you have all the self-reflection capabilities of a piece of unpolished granite, you’re making me tell you that what you want and what you believe are at odds with one another; so you need to fix that.” Then he pulled on his eyelid and stuck his tongue out at her. “Stupid dog.”  
  
When Aela woke, it was with a furious scream that motivated her to take the pitcher of water near her bed and toss it at the wall. Moments later, Telma scurried into the room with a broom and dustpan. “Oh dear,” the Jorrvaskr maid said. “Is it a toothache again, dear? I can go get Danica for some healing magic if the pain is too intense.”  
  
Aela didn’t answer, she instead dressed in her armor and left Jorrvaskr entirely. The sun was just beginning to creep over the horizon, so Aela knew it wouldn’t be a good time to call on her shield-sister’s help. But she needed to anyway. Down to the plains district she went, and to the lovely cottage Breezehome. Whereupon, she hammered the door like it was a drunk in a bar fight.  
  
There was stomping from within that preceded the door opening. Yagraz stood there, in a nightshirt and robe, with her Skyforge steel ax in one hand. The Orc’s eyes were narrow slits through which only a hint of red was visible. “Someone better be dead,” Yagraz growled and jutted her tusks forward in a subtle threat, “or somebody’s _going_ to be dead for you waking me up this early.”  
  
“Can you teach me how to stop being a basic bitch?” Aela asked with no preamble.  
  
The Orc’s expression didn’t change. Aela’s expression of annoyance frustration didn’t change. The two warriors, both alike in reputation and combat abilities maintained a staring match for a solid three minutes.  
  
“...Get in,” Yagraz told Aela. She stepped aside and let the Nord step into her home.  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara woke up at last and found that he’d been drooling in his sleep. Orchendor was awake but relaxing with the Elder Scroll being used as a pillow. When Mohamara looked around he found he wasn’t in the ship, but a crate that had several pillows stuffed into the bottom for padding. The tojay rapped his knuckles on the side of the crate, then tried to push open the top--however it seemed nailed shut.  
  
Qorach slithered his way into Mohamara’s lap then wrapped around his torso like a sash. “Don’t. They have you in here for ease of travel on the long march to Winterhold.” The metal flat-snake hissed into the cat-god’s ear. “The kittens are attended to outside, and the Third Servitor watches over them.”  
  
“I don’t want to be luggage for them,” Mohamara said back. “I have legs, I can walk.”  
  
“I cannot countermand you, Master. But my format is dot-av, and my purpose is to keep you safe. You are safest in here, so that is where I advise you stay.”  
  
Mohamara rubbed the flat-snake’s head and shook Orchendor out of his dozing. “We might be safest here, but I don’t want to be safe right now. I want to see what’s going on.” When Mohamara tried to get to one side of the crate and force-open the lid, he found himself yanked back by an unseen force. “Hey! Don’t go throwing me around because I made you stay awake!”  
  
“Khajiit didn’t throw anyone around,” Orchendor defended himself through a yawn. “Khajiit is more fond of explosion than throwing.” He too tried to get up and move, but found himself yanked back. “This one already said he didn’t do it!”  
  
“It wasn’t me either!” The two Mohamaras glared at each other before their gaze was naturally drawn to the Elder Scroll between them. “Alright, so either we figure out how this thing is messing with us….”  
  
“Elder Scrolls actively resist attempts to comprehend them, Khajiit.”  
  
“Or we deal with being effectively leashed together like mature adults.”  
  
Seconds later, the two of them were on opposite sides of the crate trying, desperately trying to pull themselves apart while their efforts suspended the Elder Scroll in the air between them.  
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Growing older is inevitable. Growing up is optional, and generally frowned upon.
> 
> Also there's a discord for this fic now, and other fics I write. Check it out if you wanna: https://discord.gg/GwRPJFy


	55. Sisterhood.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The banishment of the basic bitch commences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short, but I’m trying to get into the feel of breaking away from fixed lengths and writing what is necessary to convey what I want for the chapter.

  
  
\---  
  
**Chapter 55:** Sisterhood.  
  
He came to Breezehome on a carriage as the plains district was covered in fog. The horse almost ran over a young man who stupidly tried to stop and talk to someone about how he worked at the general store while in the middle of the road. But that didn’t interest him, for he was a man of the gods and there was evil to vanquish.  
  
He was Erandur, priest of Mara, Dunmer mage and adventurer, and he had come to banish a basic bitch.  
  
“Blessings of Mara upon you,” he said to the Orcish homeowner who had summoned him. She had waited outside the cottage for his arrival, and she helped him unload the heavy bag of bitch banishing supplies from the carriage. Once inside, Erandur went to the house’s meal table and placed the heavy bag there for unpacking. “The Divines have given us these weapons to confront the basic bitch, behold them.”  
  
The little imperial girl and drunken redguard watched in wonder as Erandur brought out many magnificent things. The first was a portrait of a Nord woman and an Argonian man in a loving embrace. The second was an entire drink mixing kit which Erandur then used to create an appletini. And the third was a crossbow.  
  
“Hey, that fruity drink looks kinda nice, mind if I--”  
  
Erandur cut off the redguard’s request firmly, but not unkindly. “Our mutual friend has told me of your drunken ways. The appletini is yours, but you must wait until I give it to you for the banishment of the basic bitch.”  
  
“What _is_ a basic bitch, sir?” The girl spoke with ignorance of youth, and for a moment Erandur wished he could go back to not knowing the basic bitch for what it was. He wished he could forget that once upon a time, _he_ had been the basic bitch.  
  
“A basic bitch is someone who believes they are special,” the Orc woman, Yagraz, said after she knelt down to the girl’s level. “When they have no right to be. They think they’re unique, they’re better than anyone else, that people should pay attention to them. The sort of people who would expect to be thanked for doing as they should.”  
  
“That sounds like a lot of people I know.”  
  
Erandur despaired at the state of Whiterun if the girl was correct. “The basic bitch can be in multiple people at once. But your mother tells me that this bitch has asked to be cured--and that is our way to rid her of her basic bitch status.” He took up the items he had unpacked and made for the stairs. “The basic bitch will try to convince you of their superiority. It will use all the tantrum throwing powers available to it. If any of you work in the marketplace, it may ask to speak to your manager.”  
  
He paused as they ascended and approached the door behind which the basic bitch was bound. He could hear her crying out in rage at being contained. His breath became visible for a moment as he stood near the doorway.  
  
“There is powerful basic bitchitry at work here. It knows we aim to banish it. Be ready.” When he opened the door, there was a wave of bitch fog waiting for them. It spilled over the threshold and flooded down the hallway until it found the stairs. At the end of the room, in the dark and held in place by the legendary warhammer Volendrung was the basic bitch.  
  
It still wore the shape of a Nord woman, perhaps the person inside was trying to fight back against her basic bitch nature to receive treatment? There were too many variables for Erandur to reach a doubt-proof conclusion. The four people entered the room, and the basic bitch looked up at their approach.  
  
“You brought an elf?” The woman spat on the floor. “I’d rather die than accept his help.”  
  
“Blessings of Mara upon you as well, sister mine.” Erandur spoke as if the basic bitch had addressed him as one should a priest of the Divines. “I’m told you wish to be cured of your basic bitch ways.”  
  
The woman snarled and tried to free herself from the pin Volendrung had her in. “I don’t need an elf’s help!”  
  
“Your friend is strong,” Erandur said in an aside to Yagraz. “The basic bitch can’t come up with better reasons to reject my help than racism. Perhaps there is hope yet.”  
  
The Orc thrust her tusks out. “Aela’s tough. She can take whatever it is you’re going to do.”  
  
“Perhaps.” Erandur set down the tools of bitch banishment upon an end table and took the portrait with him as he approached Aela. “You would accept help from a Nord with fewer complaints, sister mine?”  
  
Aela clawed at the air, in an attempt to get at Erandur and tear him asunder. “A proper Nord would see I don’t need anyone’s help! I’m perfect the way I am!”  
  
“But I’m not perfect the way _I_ am, is that right?” Erandur tilted his head so that his eyes were in shadow when he responded to Aela’s assertion. “Think again, bitch!” He thrust the portrait in front of her and moved around so that she couldn’t look away from it. “Behold! The mixing of the races! This woman is as much a Nord as you, and she finds love in the embrace of an Argonian! Their love is as valid as any love between two Nords! Look at it!”  
  
Aela hissed and snarled as steam rose up from her skin, scalded by the image she was presented with. “Race traitor! A whore no Nord would want!”  
  
“Not true! Mara, Divine of Love, commands that all love is equal! All people are equal! Think you know better than Mara!? Look at it!”  
  
The Nord’s flesh visibly contorted as if the fluids inside were boiling, and she shut her eyes against the truth.  
  
Erandur withdrew from the basic bitch’s space, his breath came in gasps as he set down the portrait. “Your friend is strong, but the basic bitch within her is mighty too.” He looked over to them to see the little girl terribly afraid of the sight of Aela in such a state. “Perhaps your daughter should step out?”  
  
“No,” Yagraz said and placed her hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Lucy’s strong enough to take this. And she needs to see it to keep this from ever happening to her.”  
  
“As you wish.” The appletini was picked up and Brenuin gestured forth as Erandur approached the basic bitch again. “You know this man, his alcoholic nature gives him authority on alcoholic drinks doesn’t it?” The appletini glass caught the light and drew Aela’s attention.  
  
She sneered at the fruity cocktail. “And he will reject the Imperial garbage you hold like it is offal! He knows the glory of Nord alcohol as well as I do, there is no way--”  
  
She was cut off by Brenuin being handed the appletini and given permission to drink. When he sipped the drink, he jerked suddenly from the taste and strength of it. “Yowza!” Brenuin paused to let the alcohol settle in his stomach for a moment before his face became visibly redder. “This is that Reachman stuff made from potatoes, right? Mixed with… apple brandy? Mara’s tits, that has a kick!” Brenuin didn’t apologize for his blasphemy and instead took another drink.  
  
Aela, dumbfounded for a moment, let out a roar as blood leaked out of her ears. From the depths of her throat, as she roared, two malevolent red eyes were briefly visible. She began to scream about Brenuin not knowing good alcohol, that such a fruity drink could never compare to proper Nord mead, and attacked his qualifications as a man for thinking otherwise.  
  
“But you just said this man knows the glory of Nord alcohol,” Erandur cut in. “You can’t have it both ways, bitch! You can’t give him the credentials to verify a subject and take them away when he has an opinion you don’t like!”  
  
“He’s _wrong_!” Aela’s voice became an unnatural warble, but still, her werewolf form failed to make an appearance.  
  
“How?! Taste is subjective! Plus, it has two different, complementary types of alcohol in it so it should be stronger than any mead!” Brenuin pointed at the bitch as if he were condemning her, for in a way he was.  
  
“He’s right, this stuff is way stronger than any mead I’ve had. Here, try some.” Without thinking, Brenuin approached the pinned bitch and poured a few drops from the martini glass onto Aela’s face.  
  
She sputtered and thrashed, and screamed as the appletini seared her flesh in its passing. However, one drop did make its way into her mouth. When it touched her taste buds her thrashing became almost a full-blown seizure. It became impossible to tell her expression due to how rapidly it changed and how her head moved so fast it became a blur. Lightning flashed outside, followed soon thereafter by a clap of thunder.  
  
“The bitch grows weaker!” Erandur quickly grabbed the crossbow and brought it over to Aela. “You think you are special because you are a warrior? Because of your skill with a bow? Behold, the advancement of technology!”  
  
Aela’s head stopped moving long enough to look at the crossbow. Her eyes were milky white, her skin was pale, and her face covered in lesions as if she were a leper. “I have seen crossbows before, and I can outperform them!”  
  
“For how much longer?!” Erandur’s question seemed to cut through the bitch’s defenses like a sword through flesh so he kept up the pressure. “Every year, the smiths of Orsinium, Cyrodiil, and Hammerfell create newer, better weapons! Swords that can shatter Nord steel, crossbows that can match longbows in range! Within your lifetime you may be confronted with the possibility that anyone with eyes and fingers can pick up a crossbow and be just as effective as you!”  
  
“No…. I worked too hard! I did my time! I’m the best archer in the Companions, and the Companions are the best warriors in Tamriel!” Black smoke leaked from Aela’s mouth as she talked.  
  
“Not forever! And definitely not if you keep assuming you have nothing left to learn, you basic bitch!” Erandur turned to Yagraz. “Grab the portrait!” Then he turned to Brenuin. “Try and get more of the appletini on her! All together, speak the words of basic bitch banishment! Bitch please!”  
  
Yagraz confronted Aela with her racism. “Bitch please!”  
  
Brenuin confronted her with her elitism. “Bitch please!”  
  
And Erandur confronted her with her sloth. “Bitch… please!”  
  
A great and terrible wind kicked up in the room. Furniture moved, wall ornaments rattled and some fell away from the strength. On the wind rode an inky black fog that rose up from Aela’s mouth as she screamed out a long, drawn out, and unnaturally deep ‘No!’ The fog formed a miniature tornado and glared out at the three bitch banishers with malevolent red bitch eyes. But the tools of banishment hurt it even outside its host. So there was no choice but to become so small it slipped back between the walls separating Aetherius, Oblivion, and Mundus to return to where all basic bitches emerge: The Void.  
  
As it departed, it released a shock wave and a ring of scorch marks on the floor and ceiling of Yagraz’s room. The three bitch banishers were thrown away by the strength of it, and a layer of dust shook free from the roof to hang in the air.  
  
One by one, they got to their feet again and went to examine Aela. She was still pinned by Volendrung, but the damage she had taken while the bitch was banished from her had healed--as if they were never real in the first place. The huntress looked up at the scorched ceiling and paid little attention to the people around her.  
  
“I wonder,” she said in her normal voice, “if this is how they felt when they gave up being a werewolf. It feels like I’d spent my whole life looking at a drawing of the world, but now I can finally _see_ it. Everything seems… more real. _You all_ seem more real.”  
  
Yagraz lifted Volendrung off of her and offered her fellow Companion a hand up. “You okay, Shield-Sister?”  
  
“No.” Aela took the hand and stood up without difficulty. Perhaps she didn’t need to take Yagraz’s hand, but she did anyway. “But I think I will be, once I see more of the world that I used to think didn’t matter.”  
  
Erandur nodded and collected the discarded tools of bitch banishment. “The basic bitch is gone, you’re free to live your life as you wish now.”  
  
“Thank you. And thank you, sister,” she addressed Yagraz with respect for the first time in what felt like forever. “I used to think you weren’t really cut out to be a Companion, that we kept you around because you were good at killing and naught much else. But I was wrong.”  
  
“If you hug me,” Yagraz warned her, “I will do my best to break your ribs. As a sister should.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah that’s touching and all,” Brenuin callously interrupted by drunkenly leaning on Erandur’s shoulder. “But could you whip up another of those apple-whatevers? Hell, make one for everyone! Lucy, you too!”  
  
\---  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Mara, bless this cocktail, that it may burn thy enemies who are soaked in bitchdom. And Mara did grin. And the people did feast upon the long island iced teas, and the Rob Roys, whiskey sours, and the planter’s punch, and--


	56. Relationship Upgrade!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the best way to balance out all that silliness last chapter, and the seriousness of the chapter before that? Some fuggin' sap!

  
  
\---  
  
**Chapter 56:** Relationship Upgrade!  
  
Marcurio was in a bad mood when he found out that his betrothed had crashed the ship assigned to him, that said ship was mountain-bound, and that the mages the pink cat was to escort had the bright idea to _walk_ to Winterhold. He was in a bad mood when he followed their trail with disgusting ease--had the gaggle of mages been hunted, they would be easy pickings.  
  
But strangely, his worst mood wasn’t borne of the fact that Mohamara’s students had elected to make camp around a lighthouse, or that according to several witnesses falmer had broken through the basement to attack them in the night. It was that when Marcurio had followed the trail of destruction in the Falmer hive, he witnessed an unknown cathay-raht that introduced himself to Marcurio as one of Mohamara’s servitors.  
  
The memetic rage of the Tullius line boiled just under the thief-mage’s smug outer layer as he gently requested to speak to Mohamara, and Orchendor, privately. Mohamara’s followers decided that was the appropriate time to mention that they’d confined Mohamara and Orchendor to a box. That they’d nailed shut at the insistence of the other mage factions.  
  
Marcurio wasn’t a _bad_ person, per se. But he knew deep in his heart that he could kill without remorse. It was situations like that where he found the greatest temptation to make use of that trait of his. But fortunately, an unknown Nord woman in spider-web styled armor cut him off at the pass, as it were.  
  
“Hey,” she said to him as she laid a hand on his shoulder. Somehow, she seemed to weave magicka enough to dampen the fireballs growing in Marcurio’s hands. “Chill out, the cat’s not hurt, and isn’t going to hurt anyone in there.” Her sardonic tone reminded Marcurio of himself when he had been younger and still amused by getting men’s wicks up as a hobby. “I don’t think he’ll agree with you that him being locked in a box is sufficient reason to kill these people.”  
  
“Wait--was he seriously going to kill us?” A random mage among the crowd asked. “I just thought he was really cold.”  
  
“Giller, you ignorant slut, no one uses fireballs for warming up,” said a second random mage in the crowd.  
  
“ _The point is,_ ” the Nord woman raised her voice over the peanut gallery. “That you go have a mature, honest talk with him that doesn’t involve brutal murder. Brutal murder can come after that, but only if the both of you agree to it.”  
  
Marcurio’s boiling rage was calmed by the woman’s words. Especially how she seemed supportive of keeping brutal murder on the table of options. So he followed the directions of the Pink Coats to find the box in which Mohamara and Orchendor had been effectively entombed. There was a sliding bar along one side, which he knocked on to get the attention of the cats inside.  
  
One of the tojay inside groaned and shuffled around to reach the inner mechanism for the slider, and opened it up. The narrow gap, barely enough for a human to get their arm through, showed the one-eyed Mohamara on the other side. “Whazzit,” the pink cyclops asked with clear grogginess. “Jone need changin’ again?”  
  
“No, love, it’s just me.” Marcurio found it actively difficult to stay upset around the pink tojay. He was _so cute_ , even with only one eye. And the way his fur was slightly tousled from sleep accentuated that cuteness. “We need to talk.”  
  
Marcurio sat down alongside the crate in which the tojay was trapped. Well, more like put in time-out--flimsy wood and iron nails couldn’t contain a cat out of his first fur. Mohamara slapped himself to full wakefulness and soon was ready to use his entire brain for their talk.  
  
“Which body part did you cut off to make that new servant of yours?” Marcurio wanted to make it into a tirade, he really did. How could Mohamara be so accepting of chopping bits of himself off to make these new servants after being violated as he had in regards to his claws? How could Mohamara not take measures to keep himself in one piece? Didn’t Mohamara fear that if he kept losing pieces of himself, he’d replace everything in himself to the point where no part of his body was the cat he’d been born as?  
  
In hindsight, Marcurio realized he might have been projecting.  
  
“Oh, I didn’t make him from me,” Mohmara responded, the sleepiness in his voice replaced with excitement. “He’s the first one I made on purpose! I mentally projected myself to the extra-planar realm I’m attaching myself to and created him there!” The cat pressed his nose through the slot as he began to tell the story of J’zargo’s creation. Excitement radiated off him like light from the sun, and the mere beholding of it melted Marcurio’s bad mood. He could imagine Mohamara gushing over every such creation the cat would make, perhaps even the kittens as they got older. It made Marcurio realize--Mohamara would be a far better parent than he would. Mohamara would gush and get excited with them over the things they loved, while the most Marcurio could see himself doing would be to open doors for them to pursue their interests.  
  
“Oh! And I found out I can make things there and bring them back to Mundus too!” The cat’s nose vanished from the slider for a moment. “This took me hours to make because I was working off vague memories. Never could afford high-end stuff like this back home, so I didn’t bother to get the specs ingrained in my memory.” A narrow box the color of pink-gold appeared in the slider’s gap, with a narrow tag hanging from it that was addressed to Marcurio.  
  
He opened it up and found a small rectangular mirror inside, rather like the mirrors Mohamara and Yagraz had, which they used to communicate with each other over great distances. Opposite the featureless black mirror side was a glittering pink-gold side with Mohamara’s three-eyed cat embossed on it. When Marcurio picked it up, the black mirror lit up with a moving picture of wondrous colors and words.  
  
“It’s a micro-slate, I based it off the Telvanni Pointillism from my time. With some custom additions from me, of course. For you.” Marcurio could see the one eye Mohamara still had peek out over the edge of the gap to watch him examine the present. It hurt the mage-thief that he saw hope and fear intermingling in that pretty blue eye. “Do you like it?”  
  
“Burmice,” Marcurio told the micro-slate. Immediately the icon of the portly Telvanni wizard woman appeared at the corner of the ‘micro-slate’s screen, just as it did with Mohamara’s slate. “Call Mohamara.”  
  
“Wait--no!”  
  
Immediately a chorus of voices sang out from inside the crate, playing one of the bizarre songs from the future. _”L is for the way you Look at me. O is for the Only one I see. V is Very, Very extraordinary. E is even more than….”_  
  
Marcurio couldn’t not laugh at the panic that the Khajiit went into to cancel the call-song. Once the micro-slate went dark from lack of use, he pocketed it near to his chest so that it would be safe and, more importantly, somewhere he could feel its weight with every movement. “I love it, love,” he told the tojay once the panic was over. “I request touching permission.”  
  
“Oh, that’s another thing.” The cat’s face vanished and all Marcurio could make out was his thrashing tail for a moment before the pink cyclops came back into view. “Orchendor and I talked about it. And um… we want to renegotiate the boundaries we set up earlier? Nix the needing permission for touching thing, keep the don’t look through my stuff thing.” Mohamara’s ears went flat on his head, and his head lowered slightly relative to where he’d been before. “Is that okay?”  
  
For a moment, the thief-mage was absolutely stunned. He hadn’t expected to get to that point in their relationship before the marriage ceremony. He’d prepared three separate excuses to his parents as to why he’d need to ask permission before each touch during the ceremony! And all that work had become wasted in the best way possible. But like a bitter aftertaste, he flashed back to the near-breakdown the cat had had during their first talk. It sobered him enough to ask the question he needed to: “Why? What’s changed?”  
  
The cat drooped a little more like he was cringing away from the Imperial. “Well… we talked and….”   
  
Only Marcurio’s training to pick up minute sounds for picking locks allowed him to understand what Mohamara mumbled next--so he asked the cat to speak up. For clarity’s sake.  
  
Mohamara sucked in a deep breath and looked at Marcurio with steel in his one eye and expression. “I trust you.”  
  
A ringing noise, like the after-effect of an explosion, filled Marcurio’s ears. Darkness took every part of his vision that wasn’t the cat trapped in a box. As far as he was concerned, they were the only two people in all Mundus. “Okay,” Marcurio said, struck dumb by three words. Slowly, ready to stop if, when, Mohamara said so, he reached up and through the gap in the crate. His arm barely managed it, but the thief-mage put his hand on the side of Mohamara’s face, close, but not touching. The Khajiit’s whiskers were the only parts he touched at the moment. When no objection came, he made contact.  
  
Mohamara pressed his face into Marcurio’s hand. The size difference was so much that Marcurio’s hand was nearly equal in size to the tojay’s face. They stayed like that for a moment before Marcurio began to run his thumb under Mohamara’s bad eye--perhaps as a symbolic gesture that he wouldn’t shy away from his beau’s less beautiful aspects.  
  
For the first time in their relationship, Mohamara purred for Macruiro of his own free will. Something filled Marcurio’s chest full to bursting as Mohamara began to lean on his hand, and closed his good eye slowly. The bad mood he’d had when he first started the conversation was only a memory for him at that point. All that mattered was that, at long last, his husband to be trusted Marcurio implicitly.  
  
In the mind of a madman, far away from the scene, Sheogorath watched the events play out on a giant ball of reflective goat cheese. He sat on a couch, with a bar of high rock spring and sandalwood soaps on ropes between him and his wife as they leaned on each other. Haskill stood behind the couch, with drinks at the ready.  
  
“You know, Meri-pants,” Sheogorath said as his face detached from his skull, and an outline of him dragged his colors from where his body lay to get a drink, only to realign into a cohesive whole when he returned to the position, “we messed up a lot of things in our boy’s life. Like. So many things.”  
  
Meridia took her eyes off the scene long enough to look aside to Sheogorath. “Some of us more than others.”  
  
“Oh, don’t beat yourself up about that, Meri-pants! Ow!” Sheogorath recoiled from the charlie-horse that his wife had delivered to him. “What I was trying to say was--we messed up a lot of things. But this, this right here,” he gestured with his bitch-banishing beverage at the cheese-screen, “this I think we got spot-on.”  
  
“Well, after seven-hundred thousand children we had to do _something_ right eventually. Might as well be this.”  
  
Sheogorath acknowledged the rightness of her assessment. Meanwhile, he reached through space and time to interact with Mohamara’s slate. By the Mad God of Song’s will, the song that Mohamara had assigned to Marcurio’s micro-slate began playing again. The lovebirds didn’t notice at all, too enraptured were they in each other.  
  
_Love is all that I can give to you._  
  
The Pink Coats, Serana, and the three Servitors watched enraptured by the scene from around a corner. Orthorn had thought ahead to get out his opera glasses for a better view.  
  
_Love is more than a game for two._  
  
Jode, ever curious and tactless, tried to approach the box and human. J’zargo made use of his stretching-limb function to catch her before she could ruin the moment.  
  
_Two in love can make it. Take my heart, but please don’t break it._  
  
Marcurio made complex magic look as easy as breathing, and widened the gap in the crate so he could allow Mohamara to lean outside. Orchendor had woken up and thought to use the slate to looking glass Yagraz so she wouldn’t miss the scene, all while he himself was just as goofy-faced as Mohamara.  
  
_Love was made for me and you._  
  
Many things happened thereafter. The onlookers on Nirn had to fight the urge to cheer as Mohamara and Marcurio’s faces were drawn closer together. In Aetherius, every Mohamara worker stopped dead in their tracks with a dopey-expression on their face--all while fireworks from nowhere entertained the souls of dead Khajiit. Meridia took to shaking Sheogorath who took to shaking Haskill as the moment drew near. Yagraz decided to record the scene so she could embarrass Mohamara in front of his kids when they got older. A lone surviving falmer joined the onlookers for a moment but was swiftly murdered to death.  
  
_Love was made for me and you._  
  
Then the two of them kissed. And it was so extremely gay. But also very sweet.  
  
\---  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Achievement unlocked: Kiss the Cat.


	57. Sphere Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, weaving is a sub-Sphere under the auspices of Hearth/Home which is in turn a sub-Sphere under Family.

  
  
\---  
  
**Chapter 57:** Sphere Three.  
  
It wasn’t often that the holders of a Sphere would convene for a meeting. With some Spheres, such as War or Combat, it would take literally centuries to plan a meeting of all the holders. With others, it would risk their connection to the Sphere itself--the whole meeting being a setup for a coup. But for the Sphere of Love, meetings rarely took place because Azura and Dibella couldn’t stand one another.  
  
Thankfully, the Goddess of Romantic love and the Goddess of Friendship’s Love did not need to speak directly to each other for the purposes of the meeting. It was a quick affair, set up on short notice by Mara, who created the Sphere. Eight seats were there in the slipstream realm between Oblivion and Aetherius to represent the Sphere, but only four were occupied. Romance, Friendship, Enduring, and Unconditional they were, carefully split up so that none could come to blows.  
  
Mara started off the meeting with cheer. “It’s so nice to see you all again!”  
  
“Sister,” Meridia of Enduring Love said, weary. “We just saw each other.”  
  
“But something could have happened, time is fickle like that,” the faux-elderly goddess responded, just as cheerful as she had been. “And we’re here for an entirely different context. Today I’d like to shelve the old business we left off on.”  
  
“I second the motion,” said Dibella, of Romantic Love. She appeared as a Redguard woman in many layers of sheer fabrics dotted with pearls, jewels, and white-gold chains that wreathed through her many piercings.  
  
The resulting vote approved the shift from old business to new business. Whereupon Mara brought forth an effigy, and its name in that space was Kind-Life. Where before it had been brittle, broken, barely together, flowering vines grew out from underneath the patch-jobs of Malacath and Vivec and held it together.. To Azura and Meridia, the sight was not as beautiful as an unblemished effigy would be--but Mara and Dibella could only marvel at it.  
  
“That is the one who helped my priestess so long ago,” Dibella said after a moment. “He posed as your priest, Mara!”  
  
“He knows me so well, I would name him a priest if he asked it,” said she who loved all things. “But my sister holds him close to her heart, I won’t try to steal him away.”  
  
Meridia did not respond with words. She reached across the table to hold her sister’s hand and squeeze appreciatively.  
  
“In mortal time, last night this small god, this empowered mortal, this nephew of mine proved me wrong.” Mara’s serene smile filled the slipstream realm with the warmth of hearth and home. “I had thought--he has been so abused, so broken, he could never feel love as we had intended.” Still serene, she directed her gaze to Meridia and her eyes shifted from warm gold to burning red despite her smile. “I did not say it, sister dear, but I was fully prepared to never forgive you for that.”  
  
It was not often that Mara brought out the red eyes of her anger. The people who would become the Redguard had seen the goddess of love’s fury one time, and it colored their view of her into the modern day. Meridia did not quail at the sight of it but was glad when her sister released that anger.  
  
“I was wrong. Perhaps you felt it, Dibella? That spike of love that set off lights all across the Aurbis?”  
  
The bejeweled figure regarded the effigy of Kind-Life with suspicion, clearly she doubted one person’s love could result in such a display that all Aetherius had borne witness to colored explosions of light.  
  
“Don’t disbelieve. I can confirm that was my nephew here. It was for only one moment, but it convinced me of the need to convene this meeting.” Mara took her hand from Meridia’s and clasped them in front of her as she swelled with pride. “I would like to vote we invite Mohamara into the Sphere of Love.”  
  
Imagine her surprise when not one of her fellow love-deities shared in her view right away.  
  
Dibella brought the effigy close and examined it, then let it float back to where Mara had summoned it. “He’s a _man_ ,” she said as if that explained everything. “What does he know of love?”  
  
“I have my own plans for him,” Azura said and looked down her nose at Mara. “Perhaps he can be invited in… after my plans are in motion.”  
  
Meridia looked away from the scene. “He is my son, and I love him, but he is mortal still.” She glanced over at Azura, perhaps to see her mother’s reaction to the ‘m’ word. “He isn’t so strongly connected to his plane that he will regenerate there yet. And he… cavorts with vampires. Frankly, it was wrong of me to share Life with him. I should have shared Command or Light.”  
  
Mara’s smile had vanished, and she looked between her fellow love goddesses, befuddled. “Do none of you see the miracle of miracles here?” She stood and rotated the effigy so that they could see all the damage to Kind-Life that had been mended. “Look! This creature could only play at love--act as a mirror for it from us. But now he does love, truly, genuinely!” From the effigy, she brought out the love for Malacath’s champion--his best friend, bordering on being his sister. She brought out the love for his children, and for the family that had reached out to him for good and ill. Mara threw this evidence before the other goddesses of love, so they could deny it no longer.  
  
To Dibella, she argued thus: “What does he know of love? Love is shown, it is taught, and can’t be relearned if done poorly. He was shown only the barest amount, so little that I--the reason this sphere exists--did not think he could ever feel love without wishing to die. I know that if he had been given what he needed from his first moments, he would be my equal in this Sphere. As it is, he is still worthy of being here. You diminish yourself by thinking a man cannot love as you do.”  
  
Dibella bowed her head.  
  
To Meridia, Mara argued thus: “How dare you. _How dare you_. Time and time again--you chose your pride over your children’s best interests. He gave you Kindness--when it was all he had to give. All the love he could feel when he was broken, he gave to you! You say he is free from your worship, that he can be independent--but the moment he makes a decision you don’t like, you rescind that independence! You seek to take back your gifts! You blame his mortality when the reason he was mortal at all is because of you!”  
  
Meridia could not bow her head, but she turned her gaze away.  
  
To Azura, Mara’s argument was short. For Azura would not change her mind once decided upon. “You see all ends--you know that no matter what way he meets you, he will love you. He will think the world of you, his grandmother, in any context. You see all love that is not yours as pieces to a game--but in this context, you lose nothing. All that is required of you is to rewrite your script.”  
  
True to form, Azura neither averted her gaze or bowed her head.  
  
The vote was three-to-one.  
  
\--  
  
“Things have been going too well, recently. Something bad’s going to happen.”  
  
“Love, I think your paranoia is showing.”  
  
“No no, listen. For every good thing in my life, something bad comes back to make it a net negative. That’s been how it’s worked since I was four.”  
  
Marcurio found he didn’t have a good rebuttal for that. He lay half inside the crate Mohamara had been confined in, with the pink tojay on his chest, his emaciated double curled up to his side, and the elder scroll that evidently shackled the two of them together under Marcurio’s head like a pillow. One hand ran down Orchendor’s spine and made note of each individual vertebrae he could feel. The other rubbed between Mohamara’s ears, in a mimicry of the gesture that had prompted the tojay’s boundary on physical contact.  
  
Jode and Jone would be occasionally brought to them for changing or physical affection. Apparently, Mohamara had insisted on being the one to change baby Jone, who looked demonstrably fatter than when Marcurio had seen him last.  
  
“Well,” Marcurio said at long last. “My mother could show up from nowhere and demand to know inappropriate things about our relationship.”  
  
Mohamara’s fangs were surprisingly difficult to avoid, given that relative to Marcurio they were small. He was reminded of this when the cat nodded into his chest and almost tore a hole in his robe. “I’m going to guess that your relationship with her is off-limits too? Cause I totally get that.”  
  
“You know me so well, love.” But Marcurio took a deep breath and steeled himself for the topic at large. “If your parents hadn’t insisted on them being there for the wedding, I would not have invited mine.”  
  
Mohamara nodded into his chest again. “If Sheogorath wasn’t paying for everything, I wouldn’t want him or his wife there. They’ll probably ruin the whole thing--and what’s supposed to be a happy occasion will just become another unwanted memory of humiliation and drama.” The pink tojay went still a moment, then turned his head to bury his good eye in Marcurio’s robes. “That’s probably what the metaphoric other shoe for this is going to be then--them absolutely ruining the wedding. If I was a gambling man, I’d say they’d start with making me wear a dress.”  
  
Marcurio coughed. And then he coughed again.  
  
Languid, like he wasn’t moving at all--perhaps he wasn’t, but using Mysticism to move--Mohamara rose up from Marcurio’s chest to sit on his torso, cross his arms, and glared down at his husband. “Did you already make a dress for me to wear?”  
  
“No--at least, not yet.” Marcurio held up his hands to defend himself from a smack that never came. When it didn’t, he reached into his satchel bag and produced a leather-bound notebook. “But I’ve had some ideas.”  
  
“I didn’t know you could draw…,” Mohamara said, with surprise as he took the notebook and opened it up. There he found sketches aplenty, mostly of skinny Khajiit like him. Disembodied arms stretched out to display fine rings, armlets, bracelets. Shoulders, necks, and heads to sketch out necklaces and chokers. One of them had a belled collar, which drove Mohamara to lower the notebook and glare once more.  
  
“I learned.” Marcurio’s smug grin was back in full swing. “All this adventuring, I haven’t had time to steal as much as I would like, so I used that energy to sketch out potential new gifts for you. Some for me, but that’s a separate notebook.” The Imperial took back his portfolio and flipped to a specific page then handed it back. “These are what I had in mind for your wedding attire.”  
  
Mohamara didn’t much care for the first one, an ancient Imperial-style tunic that was clasped over one shoulder, ended halfway down his thighs, and featured detached sleeves. All of it made of silk, Mohamara imagined, so it would be drafty as all get out. A fur cloak was included as a possible accessory, but not enough to counteract the fact that Mohamara would essentially be wearing a dress.  
  
“It’s cultural, specifically Imperial culture.” The thief-mage could read his beau’s distaste from his ear-positions. “I was thinking sky blue, to go with your pink fur.”  
  
“It’s a nice, multicultural _dress_.” The cat flipped the page, eager to see the next one. “It’s bad enough that I wear robes most of the time.”  
  
The second one at least included trousers. It was a Breton-style outfit; hose, trousers, a too-large shirt, and a doublet. The most garish thing about it was the lace ‘cape’ that was clearly meant to emulate a bride’s train. Mohamara actually lowered the book to glare at Marcurio again.  
  
“I’m not your bride, I’m your husband. Bridal aesthetics aren’t going to fly with me.”  
  
“Would it be any better if I admitted I just wanted to include the cape for the sake of using lace for once? No one in Skyrim buys it, and a wedding is a perfect opportunity to showcase the stuff.” Marcurio grinned into Mohamara’s glare, and the Imperial’s confidence broke down the Khajiit’s outrage. “Other than the lace cape, would it work?”  
  
“...Make it a lace mantle, or make the doublet lace, then. I don’t care.” The red that shone on the insides of the cat’s huge ears implied differently. He flipped the page and immediately closed the notebook, dropped it, and crawled away from Marcurio with his face entirely red. “That is--you think I would let people _see me_ in that?! I-I don’t even--what in Oblivion were you thinking?!”  
  
Confused, Marcurio flipped the notebook to the page Mohamara had just seen, and it was his turn to go red in the face. “I’m so sorry--one of the pages must have fallen out--you weren’t supposed to see this until we had that talk about Dibellan gifts and--”  
  
“Ooh, let Khajiit see!” Orchendor had woken up and grabbed at the notebook. What followed was a tug-of-war between Marcurio and his husband’s alter-ego. “Come on, the Imperial let his pink self see! This one deserves to see too!”  
  
Mohamara was in his own little world of elemental embarrassment, with so much blood concentrated in his face he was amazed he hadn’t passed out. “How would I even _get that on?!_ There weren’t any clasps or--”  
  
“ _Ahem._ ”  
  
The voice that broke up came from Mohamara’s amulet. Meridia. All the tomfoolery stopped, and an absolutely terrified silence fell over the three men in the box. How long had Meridia been listening in? Had she looked through the Khajiit’s eyes to _see_ what the fuss was about? Was she going to set them all on fire out of principle?  
  
“Hello, Mother,” both halves of Mohamara said, automatically.  
  
“Is now a bad time?”  
  
The Glister Witch’s tone was that unnatural smooth near-whisper that actors used to pretend at actual whispering. That combined with the previous situation almost sent Mohamara into a mad laughing fit. But he held strong long enough to answer in the negative to Meridia’s question.  
  
“Good. Then let this be your official notice. You have been invited to join me, Azura, Dibella, and Mara as a deity of love. The Sphere we offer you is that of Familial Love, Storge. You would become the god of parents, children, and so on. Hearth and home would be your dominion, Mara graciously donates it to you for this purpose. Do you accept?”  
  
“A Daedric Prince is on speaking terms with a Divine?” Marcurio asked in an aside to Orchendor.  
  
“Daedra and Aedra are inventions of mortals,” the emaciated cat said. “Plenty of Oblivion et’Ada joined to create Mundus. Some switched their planar homes over the cause. But they’re all of them inter-related with one another. Khajiit thinks that’s why some dislike each other so much--brothers and sisters, the Imperial knows?”  
  
Marcurio suddenly flashed back into the absolutely vicious fights he and his sisters would get into growing up. And suddenly so much of the events of legend made sense when seen through the lens of siblings squabbling over toys.  
  
Mohamara and Orchendor whispered to each other in a language Marcurio couldn’t understand, then they looked down at him. “What?” He asked, at a loss for why they looked at him so intently.  
  
“Well, you’re a part of our family,” Mohamara started.  
  
“And Khajiit intends to take Tullius as his name after marriage,” continued Orchendor.  
  
“But we don’t want you to have no say in this since it affects you.”  
  
“And could potentially paint your relatives in a light the Imperial would find displeasing.”  
  
Already, there was a lot to unpack in that chain of lines. One, Mohamara Ahramani intended become Mohamara Tullius, which Marcurio would have done backflips over if the situation permitted. Two, his husband to be was consulting him on whether he should accept a divine appointment into a major position. That level of trust blew Marcurio’s mind.  
  
“On the one hand, thank you for including me in your decision.” He reached up and rubbed each of the two technically-the-same Khajiit on their heads. “But don’t be ridiculous--barring Mara herself, I can’t think of anyone who could do a better job at being the god of families.”  
  
Mohamara gave Meridia his answer. And then things changed rapidly.  
  
In Morrowind, an aging warrior walked the ash-fields alone. His tribe was gone, and his gods spoke to him no longer. All he could do was to keep walking and hope something worth getting killed for happened to cross his way. But all of a sudden, the rumbling from Red Mountain quieted like a wall had been thrown up around it. While the aged warrior pondered what happened, he heard a sudden cry. When he followed it, he found a babe beneath her mother’s corpse--and with her something worth living for.  
  
Several such stories happened all across Tamriel, across Nirn. None of these happenings would be worth a great story over alcohol, no glory was won, but a difference was made in hundreds of thousands of lives. As if guided by providence, those who needed a family but had none were put on the path to find theirs. Either in adoptive families, families of compatriots, or in teachers and students.  
  
At the lighthouse where Mohamara had been physically located, all of a sudden a gentle chime rang out. Pink dust exploded from the box he’d been held up in and flowed over the land like ripples on water.  
  
Seconds afterward, Marcurio emerged from the box and collapsed onto his hands and knees. He coughed up lungfuls of glittering pink dust, all the while complaining of an overwhelmingly sweet flavor. Whatever mystical moment was still there to be had was ruined when the proprietor of the lighthouse burst from the front door with his sword drawn.  
  
“Okay, I’m grateful you save my family from the Falmer, but I’ve had enough! All of you, get off my property with your Daedra-worshiping magic! Go on, git!”  
  
\---  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look out for Mr. Cat  
> That persevering chap  
> He'll come along and drop  
> A bundle in your lap


	58. Temper, Temper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheogorath loses his cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all haven't forgotten that Sheogorath isn't exactly a good parent. Or a decent parent.

  
\---  
**Chapter 58:** Temper, temper.  
  
  
The entire caravan of mages had been diverted to the ruins of a Dwemer city, Alftland, publicly for the reason of permitting a storm to pass and to let the Pink Coats make use of their newer, stronger morpholiths.  
  
But the real reason was something small, selfish, and created just as many problems as it solved.  
  
Prior to the diversion, Mohamara and Orchendor had been in their crate, getting used to their new love powers. There had been a brief hiccup where they got a rush of the bad families Marcurio and nearby mages had experienced, but that had passed. Marcurio, meanwhile, had taken to appreciating like Life, Love hadn’t significantly altered his beau’s appearance. He floated alongside the crate while it was carried by spellswords, and pondered.  
  
But he didn’t do so for very long--too much pondering creased the forehead, and Marcurio had no intention of getting wrinkles until he hit fifty _at least_. His pondering led him to knock on the slider to Mohamara’s box, and wait for two tojay to appear on the other side. Whereupon he made a dangerous suggestion that could easily have gotten them both on the bad sides of multiple Daedra.  
  
“We should elope.”  
  
The spellswords carrying Mohamara’s box gave each other a ‘what the fuck’ look.  
  
Mohamara and Orchendor looked at each other, then at Marcurio, like he had advised them to drink liquid iron. “Both sets of our parents are planning to be there,” Mohamara said. His tone made it seem like he was explaining an obvious flaw in the plan.  
  
“Yeah-huh.”  
  
“Our myriad sisters will likely show up,” added Orchendor, his tone mirroring Mohamara’s.  
  
“More than likely.” Marcurio rested his head in his hand while he continued to float along.  
  
“ _Everyone_ in our family has anger problems, and us canceling the wedding to elope would give them an excuse to--,” Mohamara’s fearful rant was cut off by Marcurio asking him a question.  
  
“Who said anything about canceling the wedding?” The thief-mage arched a smug eyebrow at his beau’s confused expression. “We let them have their pageantry, big fancy wedding and all that… but in secret, we’ll have been married for months already at the time. No one would know but us, these two fine gentlemen who will accept a bribe to keep their mouths shut if they know what’s good for them, Mara, and some witnesses.” He watched the tojay cats work out his line of thinking for a moment before clarifying. “I refuse to let our wedding be a painful memory for either of us. So we marry in secret and let the crazies ruin what basically amounts to a vow renewal. Follow me so far?”  
  
“Wait,” one of the spellswords carrying Mohamara’s box spoke up. “Did you just threaten us?”  
  
“Giller, I swear to every god known and unknown if you don’t shut up and take the bribe I’ll stab you to death myself,” said the other.  
  
Marcurio allowed himself to be distracted by their antics for but a moment before he focused again on the only one(s) whose opinion mattered in this situation. His mind was already plotting out two initial routes that could be taken from that point, branching off of ‘yes’ and ‘no’ respectively. No matter what the answer would be, Marcurio would be ready to seamlessly move along with his beau’s choice.  
  
“Alftand has a cathedral,” Orchendor said at last. “And we still have the calling password in our slate Khajiit thinks.” The emaciated cat vanished from the slider, and a moment later was replaced with the Dwemer-metal slate. “Yes, still got it! ...Um, wow, Khajiit didn’t know Alftand was so badly damaged.”  
  
“Well of course it is,” Mohamara said back. “It’s not fully restored until, what, the fourteenth era?”  
  
“But--we could use their cathedral. Get some people down there, act as witnesses, maybe summon aunt Mara, and it’ll be done!”  
  
“Why does it having a cathedral matter, love?” Marcurio reached in to scratch under Mohamara’s chin so Orchendor could speak uninterrupted. That the pink cat became a half-melted weight which leaned into his hand for it was almost as good an outcome as getting the information, honestly.  
  
“Mysticism, mostly.” Orchendor looked at Mohamara half-melted, then pouted at Marcurio until the Imperial began to scratch his chin too. The strength of the scratching was reduced so that they could speak. “Places of worship are closely tied to divine energy.”  
  
“And oaths made in the presence of that type of divine energy, dead or alive, tend to be stronger,” Mohamara added. “So while you can pray anywhere, the gods can more clearly ‘hear you’ in a temple.” The pink cat’s ears flicked while he was scratched. “Hmm, I wonder if Volskygge counts as a temple for--”  
  
Both cats rose up off Marcurio’s scratching fingers to look at each other in a panic. “We forgot to start building Meridia’s temple!”  
  
“No, you didn’t.” Marcurio gently reminded the two cats and would have added some physical affection to that, but they had moved too far away. “You told your followers to start on it, had the local quarries begin digging up the rock, and set up everything with the artists before you even left, remember?”  
  
The two cats looked at each other, confused, then lowered their ears. Mohamara spoke for the pair of them. “I… don’t remember that. But okay, that’s started.”  
  
“Maybe you should write this stuff down? So you don’t forget all the important things you’re supposed to be doing?” Marcurio suddenly tilted his head back in thought. “Though I do that too. Granted, I have a lot less important things to do than you do.” The cats found his hands again, and he returned to chin-scratching. “But, Alftand you say? Does that mean we’re going through with my proposal?”  
  
“So exactly what _sort_ of bribe we talking about? Money, physical goods, women? I mean, the cat’s supposed to be a god, he could just like _make_ wives for us or something.”  
  
“Giller, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’m going to drop this box and shank you right now.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“No buts!”  
  
And that was how they diverted to Alftand, once an important communications hub of the second Dwemer Empire. On the way down to the cathedral, they encountered a team of explorers who were both happy and sad to have them. Happy because an army of nearly a hundred mages, low skill mages mind, was enough to get them out of the sticky situation of being captured and tortured by Falmer. And sad because it meant that the price for their lives was that they’d get no treasure.  
  
Mohamara didn’t much care for the treasure or lack thereof, he had only been distracted from his eloping to stop a pair of Khajiit brothers from coming to blows. One was a skooma addict and in heavy withdrawal, and had stabbed his brother over imagined skooma. The Caller went to work healing the cathay stab victim’s injury while Adanna brewed up a cure for Skooma made from a few drops of Mohamara’s blood. Neither process would be done quickly, but the mage-crowd had no objections. The chance to see the inside of a Dwemer city, broken down though it was, and get a trinket seemed worth the additional delay. To prevent any chance of them being discovered easily, Mohamara had left his Meridian amulet in the Caller’s care, publicly so that students could begin to enchant the explorer’s equipment.  
  
As they went down into the depths of Alftand, Mohamara’s two halves, Marcurio, Serana, Orthorn, the Servitors, the babies, and Yagraz on a looking glass session were ridiculously overpowered for the Falmer defenses. Falmer that tried to fight were reduced to literal red paste in some cases, metaphoric red paste in most. Dwemer automatons would approach them threateningly, then pause and look at them. Every time, Mohamara and Orchendor thought really loudly the tune they had heard while hallucinating in the Reach nearly a year ago.  
  
The tune was actually the calling password for Dwemer facilities. The Dwarves could speak across great distances, a skill that would be one day used to permit slates, micro-slates, and all varieties of devices to communicate from potentially continents away. That was the call, which could be mimicked by the thoughts of mortals. Loosely translated, the password meant: “I am a Dwarf, I am a laborer here to dig. Those who do not Call with me are my slaves. Let me pass.”  
  
The automatons let them pass.  
  
Alftand’s cathedral was a temple to Reason and Logic, Julianos and Jyggalag--though the Dwemer denied that the two could be assigned mortal traits like names and personalities. Directly above the entrance to the holy building was where they aimed to go. A few dead Falmer, and up a couple flights of stairs, the would-be husband pair stood on either side of a lever where they had set up Mohamara’s slate. On Yagraz’s side, she had brought a friend of hers--a priest of Mara--to officiate the wedding.  
  
“It was Mara who first gave birth to all of creation,” said the Dunmer priest on the other end of the looking glass.  
  
Mohamara chose to let that slight against Meridia slide--lest he accidentally summon her.  
  
“And pledged to watch over us as her children.”  
  
Again, the tojay shifted on his feet in mild annoyance. The Sphere of Love rattling around in him instinctively told him that such was _his_ domain, and he should smite the mortal for saying otherwise. But he reigned that in, he’d been the god of families for all of a day thus far--no one knew who he was.  
  
“It is from her love of us, that we first learned to love one another.”  
  
Marcurio bent down and offered his hand to Mohamara, who took it. They hadn’t really been the hand-holding type of relationship, the cat realized. It felt weird. Nice, but weird. Orchendor was only slightly jealous, as he held onto both kittens during the proceeding.  
  
“It is from this love that we learn: A life lived alone is no life at all.”  
  
Though they did not share it with each other then, both grooms felt that sentiment on a deep, personal level.  
  
“We gather here today, under Mara’s loving gaze, to bear witness to--”  
  
“A parental veto on all of this! Really, lad, I’m so happy you did this, your sisters never got this far in a relationship that I could play the forbidding father routine!” Out of nowhere, Sheogorath popped into existence between the two and shook them about the shoulders. “Eloping! What a grand idea! Shame I have to quash it really--but dear old Meri-pants has her heart set on being there for the event.”  
  
“Sheogorath, Dad,” Mohamara started but was tutted to silence while the Mad God physically picked him, Orchendor, and their kittens up all at the same time in a hug.  
  
“It’s just--I’m so _proud of ye_ , laddie! You’re defying me! Meri-pants too! A year ago you woulda ate your own hands first!” He squeezed them frankly too hard--Mysticism telekinesis had to be used to keep the kittens from being compressed. “But, proud as I am, this cannot proceed.” Sheogorath grew a third arm to flick disdainfully at the priest of Mara on the looking glass. “Go on, go, you aren’t needed no more. Except by all those people who do need you and are dying because you’re not there. Perhaps you should go help them.”  
  
Fortunately, a plan had been hatched for exactly that situation. The babies were teleported away into the arms of Orthorn as a distraction, whereupon both Mohamaras drew back their legs and delivered a swift kick to the Mad God’s squishy bits.  
  
Gods doing violence to each other carried more weight than mortal-on-god violence. And even when he’d become a god, Mohamara’s power relative to Sheogorath had been laughable. But the combined effects of three spheres and the unique properties of Kindness allowed him to hit above his metaphysical weight class. So that double groin-kick didn’t just distract Sheogorath, it hurt.  
  
_It hurt like a bitch._  
  
But neither cat knew that right away. They escaped their father’s grasp and rejoined Marcurio in front of the slate. “Hurry up and get to the ‘I do' part before he recovers,” said the two cats as one.  
  
“Wait--if your father has objections--” The Dunmer priest was cut off once again by Sheogorath.  
  
The Mad God had grown demonstrably nicer over the Fourth Era and beyond. He loved fun, and he loved his children. But it had been a significantly long time since he’d felt something that actually _hurt him_. Meridia punching him in the face stung, but she pulled her punches specifically so that it never go worse than a sting. Except when she didn’t, but Sheogorath enjoyed that too. When a non-Meridia person inflicted actual, appreciable, pain on him… Sheogorath tended toward the quintessential _mortal_ trait of hitting back.  
  
Which took the form of slapping Mohamara so hard the cat’s neck twisted unnaturally, produced a sickening _crunch_ , and carried the cat off the platform from the strength of it. Naturally, the elder scroll and Orchendor went flying with him--but the other tojay had gone unnaturally limp. They landed on the other side of a barred gate, in plain view of the mortals and immortals on high. Neither moved from their spot on the ground. Perceptive eyes, like Orthorn, Serana, and Marcurio noted that neither of them were _breathing_.  
  
All around Marcurio, the scene became chaos. The Servitors sparked, smoked, and struggled to remain functioning. An earthquake started up in response to a god’s murder. Yagraz appeared on the looking glass and demanded answers. Sheogorath made a face like he’d accidentally dropped some food on the floor. But all Marcurio heard was a persistent white noise, all he saw was Mohamara. It was like the immediate aftermath of the revelation that Mohamara trusted him--nothing else in the world existed.  
  
_”Things have been going too well, recently. Something bad’s going to happen soon.”_  
  
_”For every good thing in my life, something bad has happened to make it a net negative.”_  
  
His beau’s words rattled around in his head like bees. And then a wasp joined them.  
  
_”We should elope.”_  
  
His own words. The entire reason they were down there was that Marcurio had offered a change of plans on a whim. The Khajiit he loved was dead… because of him.  
  
No, Marcurio thought to himself as he remembered Sheogorath’s involvement. Because of _him_. The half of Mohamara’s Eye that he had with him howled to life, and Marcurio became a being of elemental fire once more. In such a small space, it had quite the effect.  
  
“Slick, no!” Yagraz tried to stop him from half a country away.  
  
**”Slick, yes!"** His fire-voice howled as he launched himself at Sheogorath. It didn’t matter that he knew the Mad God was well out of his depth, or that said Mad God also had half the Eye himself. Vengeance demanded violence, and Mohamara wasn’t there to convince him otherwise this time.  
  
He only barely acknowledge Jone’s wailing as he tore into the stunned Daedra with claws and fangs of flame.  
  
\--  
  
Serana, Orthorn, and the babies took shelter in the shadow of J’zargo while the Mad God got his metaphoric shit pushed in by an angry fire elemental. Frankly, she was surprised she hadn’t spotted he was a fire elemental in disguise before. What else could just float along like that?  
  
She’d come down for a divine wedding and ended up in the midst of a divine brawl.  
  
“Big guy, you okay?” The Nord vampiress asked of the cathay-raht. He had stumbled backward and shattered a significant portion of the architecture behind him when he hit it. His spasms, the way metal seemed to grind whenever he moved, the way smoke rose from his nose and ears didn’t speak well in her opinion.  
  
“Okay, adjective--... Okay, adjective--...,” the Servitor said back to her, with a voice unnaturally deep. His eyes would flash and light up in bursts when he tried to move in a more articulate fashion, but never long enough to permit him to stand. Neither of the cat-god’s other Servitors were faring any better--the crab-like one seemed to be on fire when she last looked.  
  
“I think we’re on our own, any ideas?” Serana turned to Orthorn who had the unfortunate task of containing Jode who sought immediate escape and pacifying Jone who wailed louder than she thought was possible.  
  
“Momamma!” Jode was wailing too but refused to let it paralyze her. A benefit of being more developed, Serana guessed.   
  
The cat had been kind to her--expected of the God of Kindness. And she was sad that a genuinely involved and empathetic deity had been lost on what should be a happy occasion, but that wouldn’t get them out of the situation alive. “Orthorn, come on! You’re supposed to be able to do the impossible!”  
  
The High Elf was thrown completely off his game by the sudden murder of his god and the need to keep divine children alive and safe. “Um. Ideas, ideas, ideas.” He looked around and then clenched his eyes shut. “I’m not good with ideas! I just.. _do_ things!” Jode bit him in her bid to escape, but he hardly noticed. “The master….”  
  
Seranna slapped him to keep the High Elf from devolving into tears too. “Hey hey hey! Come on, we can’t stay here, we need to fix this somehow!”  
  
“Fix this… fix it!” With half his face red from the slap, Orthorn lit up with sudden inspiration. “A tojay of the master’s size could safely be revived within a few minutes depending on the Restoration magic used! We fix the broken parts, and everything will be okay!”  
  
Sheogorath skipped across the ground and struck the far wall like a stone tossed at a pond. He seemed no worse off from Marcurio’s attack, detached enough to shout ‘whee!’ as he went.  
  
“That’s a fantastic plan, how good are you at Restoration magic?” Serana was disheartened when her question took the metaphoric wind out of Orthorn’s sails. “What?”  
  
“I don’t know Restoration magic… I’ve never gotten hurt badly enough to need it. And nothing I could Conjure knows how to heal either!”  
  
Serana pinched the bridge of her nose. The High Elf, it seemed, would not deliver her from the situation. She’d have to do it herself. “Alright. Fine. I have an idea--but it’s a desperation move so don’t give me crap for it when we’re out of this!”  
  
Without a thought to Orthorn’s reaction, Serana bolted for the stairs. Perhaps he’d think she was abandoning him, perhaps not. She was more focused on not getting between the elemental in the shape of a huge fire-dog and the Daedric Prince brawling it out. Once she was at the gate, it took only a little squeezing, and she was through. The two halves of the dead god lay there, still as stone with the elder scroll between them.  
  
She picked up the one with the broken neck and quickly spun his head back around to where it ought to be. “Well, on the plus side, with those chompers no one will be able to tell the difference.” Her quip delivered to the corpse, Serana opened her mouth wide enough to expose her own fangs and dug into the dead god’s neck.  
  
For how awful the situation was, she couldn’t help but note that the cat’s blood was the single most delicious she’d ever tasted.  
  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, a rotation of around 270 degrees happened there.


	59. Lesson learned.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sheogorath isn't nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes part of being a parent is letting your kids get in trouble so they don't do it again.

  
\---  
**Chapter 59:** Lesson learned.  
  
Orchendor suddenly took a long, gasping breath. The Servitors stopped their erratic displays and began to repair their damage. J’zargo was quickly well enough to get between the fire-dog and the Mad God. He certainly couldn’t fight either of them and win, but he was sturdy enough to convince them to stop the one-sided brawl and behold how the situation had changed. The earthquake seemed to have passed without major structural damage to the cathedral at least.  
  
Yagraz had been on the other side of the looking glass the whole time and had provided advice to Marcurio on where to hit Sheogorath next. The slate was picked up so she could see the situation.  
  
Down at the base level of the cathedral, Mohamara had sat up as if he was right as rain and clutched at his neck to stymie bleeding. Nearby Serana was pacing over a three feet patch of stone and gaining speed with every oscillation. Marcurio as the dog of fire abandoned Sheogorath to go down to his husband.  
  
Orchendor had taken one look at Mohamara and frantically tried to get _away_ , but the elder scroll held them in proximity. The reason why wasn’t clear to Marcurio until he was closer. A thief needed to read body language, to find those special breeds of dumbass who weren’t paying enough attention. So he immediately noticed the sharper body language around Mohamara. He’d been clearly sheltered and only showed anything close to combat instincts when the kittens were involved. But the Mohamara he saw there moved subtly like a small predatory cat. His ears moved at every sound, there was a subtle shift in the economy of motion--away from what Mohamara had before, and more toward Marcurio’s. Before his eyes, the sandy yellow seemed to drain out of the tojay’s fur, leaving only white and pink. Combined with close proximity to a vampire, there weren’t a whole lot of alternate interpretations.  
  
The shift in the cat’s one eye from light blue to black and red cut those down to just one.  
  
Serana was babbling about apologies for doing it but reinforced the necessity at the time. Marcurio barely noticed, like he barely noticed that the earthquake that had started when Mohamara had become a victim of filicide. All that mattered was the cat.  
  
Said cat was examining himself. Marcurio didn’t imagine it was a pleasant experience, death, and revival. Nor would it be a pleasant experience to deal with this sudden complication, given how Orchendor was _still_ frantic to get away from his other self. The change hadn’t affected the emaciated cat yet, but Marcurio held on to that sentiment just in case. It hadn’t affected him _yet_.  
  
He returned to his Nibanese shape and set the slate aside so Yagraz could see what had happened. No one but Serana was talking.  
  
Half a country away, Yagraz could only look on and feel like the worst friend imaginable. The friend she’d gone through time to rescue had just been murdered and revived as an _abomination_ by his own reckoning. But she was Yagraz gro-Dushnikh, greatest among the Companions, strongest Orc in all Tamriel at that time. She’d do whatever was necessary to help her friend… friend _s_ through this.  
  
“So,” she said at last. “We start on the plan to beat up Molag Bal, take his power over vampires away, and fix this whole mess. All in favor?”  
  
It didn’t dissolve the tension like she hoped it would, but it did break the silence.  
  
Yagraz or Marcurio would have been furious in Mohamara’s situation. But all the cat seemed to notice was the glowing half of his Eye around Marcurio’s neck. “You used it?” His voice was raspy--not unreasonable given his throat had recently been twisted badly.  
  
“Sheogorath broke it,” Marcurio said back. He tried to make it seem like nothing was wrong. Perhaps if he played it off, his beau wouldn’t break down from the awful situation.  
  
Naturally, because the Aurbis desired Marcurio meet his destiny on the road he took to avoid it, the tojay’s shoulders started to shake, and the sniffles came next. Mohamara was visibly holding back a full-on bawling fit, and neither Marcurio or Yagraz felt it undeserved.  
  
“He killed me.” Mohamara took his hand off his neck to look at the blood all across his palm. The wound had stopped bleeding but was clearly going to scar. “He… _killed_ me.”  
  
Marcurio wanted to tell the cat that he’d been right. About the shoes dropped, about the anger problems inherent in both their families and about the ruined wedding. But he didn’t say any of those things. Instead, he crouched down and spread his arms wide. It was perhaps not the best idea to hug a vampire, but his husband needed one.  
  
The cat scooted over to him and buried his face in Marcurio’s robes while they hugged. It would have been okay to cry about his own murder and the hideous means needed to reverse it. Serana’s case for why she was justified in turning the divine Khajiit had transitioned into the usurpation potential, to eradicate undeath by defeating Molag Bal for their dominion. But neither of the Rainbow Men really paid her mind.  
  
Orthorn’s arrival with the kittens was more worrisome. Jode was still crying for her ‘Momamama’, and Jone was crying in general. It was clear from how the tojay clung to Marcurio that the tojay didn’t want them to see him as he was. Orchendor, however, had yet to emerge from his ‘get away from the vampire me’ setting he’d been on since waking up.  
  
If the kittens rejected Mohamara because of the transformation, it likely would result in a total mental breakdown, Marcurio guessed. He wanted to shield the cat from that possibility, but also acknowledged that they had just seen him die--and Jode at least was developed enough to know what had happened on some level.  
  
“Master, um. The way up is closed off. What should we do?”  
  
The High Elf and Imperial shared a look, where Marcurio tried to impress upon the ever so slightly dim man that now was _not the time_. But fortunately, Yagraz had an idea.  
  
“Dwemer places always have elevators out of them. The guys loved not being able to secure their cities cause they just left backdoors everywhere.”  
  
At last, Jode wriggled her way out of Orthorn’s grip and lept at her dads. Marcurio, keen to prevent further injury be done, tried to stop her, but she was the Big Moon and would get her way. She wriggled down into the hug to sniff at the top of Mohamara’s head. His ears twitched at her approach, but his tail hadn’t moved at all. It was the Khajiit equivalent to ignoring someone.  
  
Jode didn’t care much and rubbed her face into the pale tojay’s head with a purr. She either didn’t instinctively have problems with vampires or couldn’t tell the difference. That momentarily perked Mohamara up enough to where he was about to pull free of the hug. But then Orchendor snatched the kitten away from his vampiric self and spat-hissed while he backed away to the max permitted by the elder scroll.  
  
The whole situation was a cluster-fuck, in all honesty. Everything that could have gone wrong, that Marcurio could imagine, had. All that was left was for--  
  
As if the Aurbis were purposefully arranging things, Marcurio had to suddenly release Mohamara and roll away when he felt the cat’s head tilt upward and his mouth open. The cat’s fangs snapped closed on air as Marcurio completed his roll. When he looked at his beau, he realized that it wasn’t really him anymore. The crying, the emotion, the physical proximity, had all been a ruse. He knew this because the vampire grinned at him, that predatory body language indicating he was about to pounce and launched at the Imperial.  
  
Time stopped. Literally.  
  
All motion stopped save for Marcurio. He looked around in bewilderment at the scene, how Mohamara was frozen in the air with mouth agape and hands outstretched in a gesture that would have been threatening if he’d had claws. Serana was a blur of colors, features indistinguishable. A single rock from the ceiling hovered in the air.  
  
And Sheogorath hummed a merry tune while he skipped down the stairs to where the results of his actions had unfolded. “Well, that was a merry scrap, wasn’t it?” The Mad God purposely tripped himself and fell down the last flight to transition into a roll, roll over to Marcurio, and end up on his belly with his lower body bent back toward his head with both feet planted on either side of his face. “So! What have we learned?”  
  
“How-- why--?!” Marcurio gesticulated toward the scene, frozen in time. “Just… _why?!_ ”  
  
“Well, the how is less likely to get your head exploded.” The Mad God took one half of the Eye of Mohamara out of his boot, and let it catch the light. “I’m connected to the Eye, and so are you. So I pull on the Eye, the Eye pulls on you, and I can take you with me through time easier than I can with other mortals.”  
  
“But time’s _Akatosh’s_ thing!” The thief-mage was beside himself, the situation that had just played out, how his husband had tried to _feed on him_ , and now Sheogorath’s nonsensical unlogic drove him to insane giggles. “How are you doing this?”  
  
“Oh, Martin likes me. So he lets me get away with this sort of things.” Sheogorath swung his head gently to the side and scooted his feet in time with the swings. “As for why… well, you thought you were being clever, yanking the rug out from under us like that.” The Mad God’s tone of cheerful detachment gave way to a lower vocal range with an edge of malice. “I’m proud of my boy for defyin’ me. But you? Not so much. So you needed a lesson on minding your betters.” He laughed suddenly, mad and gleeful. “By betterin’ your mind!”  
  
“You did all this to prove a point?!” Marcurio’s half of the Eye flared up as he tried to become a being of fire again. But it dimmed in response to Sheogorath’s half of the Eye lighting up in turn. Absent any means of getting vengeance through violence, Marcurio pulled on his otherwise perfect hair in frustration.  
  
“No, I did nothing to prove a point. I let the scene play out how it would have if none of the many Daedra in the family were keepin’ tabs on you two ‘cept me. I took their detailed spying and replaced it with _nothing_. So that when things fell apart, you’d have no one to call on for help but yourselves.” Sheogorath laughed with his low tone, edged in malice. “Isn’t that what you wanted, by eloping?”  
  
“You… killed him! You let him become _that!_ ” Marcurio pointed at the frozen Mohamara vampire. In the frozen time, he could see more details, like how the white and pink tojay had been _drooling_ while he lunged at the Imperial.  
  
“Mhm. I tend to swing wildly from helicopter parent to sink-or-swim. It’s a hobby of mine, makes the kiddies so delightfully unstable when I show up. Easy to have fun with.” Sheogorath smiled like they were discussing vapid topics over tea. “So! What have you learned, son-in-law-to-be?”  
  
“You’re _evil_ ,” Marcurio snarled.  
  
The Mad God’s smile grew slightly smaller but remained. “Well, I was the Listener of the Dark Brotherhood at one point, so that’s a given. Perhaps you’ll remember that next time you think you can outsmart me’n me wife?” When Marcurio had no immediate answer, Sheogorath nodded. “Good, I can tell you’ve learned your lesson. So, let’s get going.”  
  
“Wha--don’t touch me!” Marcurio tried to get away from the Mad God as Sheogorath reached out to him, but the Daedra’s arm seemed to stretch infinitely. The moment the two made contact, the Alftand cathedral vanished. Instead, they were on the sunlit glacial paths of the Pale, alongside the long caravan of mages.  
  
There, Marcurio saw himself, floating alongside the box in which Mohamara and Orchendor had been confined. The scene was similarly frozen in time as the previous one had been. Confused, angry, and emotionally drained, Marcurio processed all this and locked eyes with the Mad God once again.  
  
“See, when most people break the dragon, it tends to cause a mess. But I’ve figured out how to do it all nice and clean after a _lot_ of practice. Less breaking, more bending, I’d guess you call it.” The Daedra shrugged. “Bending the dragon sounds a bit naughty though. I think Dibella wrote a book with that title. Anyway!” Sheogorath scuttled forward like some insane human-shaped crab and got all up in Marcurio’s grill. “The only ones who’ll remember what happened there will be me’n you. So keep it in mind would ya? Who knows, maybe next time I’ll let it _stay that way_.”  
  
Sheogorath released him, and Marcurio found himself drawn to the other version of him like he were iron and the other him was a magnet. When he touched his other self, it felt like breaking through a layer of ice to fall into the cold water below.  
  
And then time resumed.  
  
Marcurio blinked, once, twice, thrice, and looked around in a sudden panic. His floating waved from how thrown for a loop he was, but the thief-mage barely prevented himself from falling into the snow.  
  
“...well?”  
  
Mohamara’s question drew Marcurio’s attention back to the scene. He looked at the two of them, and for a moment the specter of the Mohamara vampire lurked in his vision. He shook his head, and when he looked again, Mohamara was back to normal.  
  
“You didn’t finish your thought. ‘We should’ what?”  
  
A natural liar, and eager to get the emotional rollercoaster he’d just gone on done with, Marcurio spun a quick lie. “We should get the kittens and have a family cat nap. Yeah.” It was by far not his best work, but given the amount of shit he’d had to put up within the span of twenty minutes, it was the best he could do.  
  
The two Mohamaras squinted at him, but then the emaciated Orchendor yawned. “Khajiit could use a nap, yeah. Existing like this is so tiring.”  
  
“Well,” his pinker self commented. “That’s because you won’t let me share my energy with you. Honestly, you could at least let me give you the resources to not look all skin and bones.” The two of them had a brief squabble on the subject, during which Marcurio retrieved the kittens, used Alteration to expand the gap in the box’s side, then shrink it back once he and the babies were inside.  
  
The spellswords struggled under the additional weight for a while but thankfully kept their stupid mouths shut so the cats and Imperial could settle down for a family nap.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think this is a retcon? The events of the past couple chapters did canonically happen, but they also didn't. Because bending the dragon. They just mostly happened because Sheogorath is an awful, terrible, two-bit, no-good parent thanks to having a reset button equivalent.


	60. Everybody wants to be a cat.

\---  
**Chapter 60:** Everybody wants to be a cat.  
  
“I feel ridiculous. Do I look ridiculous?”  
  
“Not in the slightest,” Marcurio lied as easily as breathing. “I’ll let you see yourself in the mirror when I’m done, and you can decide if you like how I made you look.” Beauty being subjective meant that the cat’s appearance would be decided by him and no one else. But Marcurio had to admit, privately, that he did look a little ridiculous. A bit of hilarity was good for dealing with Sheogorath’s _demonstration_.  
  
With thief-like efficiency, Marcurio set aside the eyeliner pen and tried to find something that would help apply eyeshadow to Mohamara’s fur. Around the eyes, the sandy-pink fur was shorter but still present which meant skin applicators wouldn’t cut it. On a whim he had mentioned the makeup he himself used every morning to look his best, and Mohamara had commented that he’d never worn any. Beside Marcurio, Jo’leen, with Baishi on her head like a hat, was doing the same for Orchendor. It was something of a contest to see who could make the cat look the best.  
  
Of course, it was cheating that she was more experienced, and had purpose-built equipment that Marcurio had been forbidden from stealing. But the challenge to do the best without adequate equipment thrilled him.  
  
Winterhold was only a day away, the caravan was camped on Mount Anthor where Kipgolsik indulged in tinvaak with another frost dragon. Alduin’s retreat from Marcurio had shaken his claim to lordship over dragons. It was currently up in the air if Alduin’s next youngest brothers, Yagraz, or _Marcurio_ would become lord of the dragons. The way Kipgolsik translated what the other frost dragon had said the popular opinion about Marcurio driving Alduin to flee, he almost got the feeling dragons found him _attractive_.  
  
Every night since Sheogorath’s demonstration, Marcurio had joined the Khajiit cluster in the sleeping box. There he learned that the Mohamaras indeed were cuddlers, and it hadn’t been a fluke that he’d woken up with the pink tojay clutching his arm like a security blanket when last they’d shared a bed. Marcurio had the common sense not to _tell_ Mohamara what he’d experienced because the Mad God had been specific about only he and the thief-mage remembering it.  
  
It galled him that he could be cowed so easily. At least, it galled the part of him that was still in the mindset of a ruthless real-estate tycoon with side venues of resource acquisition for the guild and silk entrepreneur. The part of him that wanted to be a loving husband and father-figure supported him.  
  
And it worried Marcurio that for the first time in his life, he was of two minds about something. It rattled his confidence. The confidence he desperately needed to make his beau look as beautiful as possible in the immediate present.  
  
Something caught his eye and it _clicked_. He picked up a piece of bottom-heavy quartz and tapped it against the side of its container until it was in the pickup setting. Without hesitation, he touched it to one of Mohamara’s pink stripes and the crystal took on the color. Then it was back to tapping as he adjusted the shade and tone to get it just right.  
  
“Before I get started on this next part,” he told the cyclopean Khajiit. “I want to let you know that I love you.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears went flat against his head and his tail began to tap on the ground. “What are you going to do?” Immediate suspicion, with active negative hesitation--a good, healthy reaction!  
  
“I’m going to dye the fur around your eye rather and put something on it.” Marcurio easily ignored Jo’leen as she huffed about his cheating. “Your eyes are… is a really nice shade of sky blue, and pink naturally goes well with that.” The Khajiit’s eye was also small relative to his skull, but Marcurio didn’t mention that. So he carefully applied the quartz, a tool used to highlight hair, and applied a shade of pink that would one day be known as ‘bubblegum’ on the cat’s eyelid and under his eyebrow.  
  
“This is going to wash out, right?” The pink tojay’s tail hadn’t ceased papping upon the ground, but he permitted Marcurio to go about his business. “Wait… it’s magic. I can feel it. So I should just be able to dispel it.”  
  
“You would be a terror at the Emperor’s court, love.” Marcurio’s mind went back to that den of vipers all atwitter to each other like best friends while they would sharpen their knives. “You could undo the most expensive looks with a whim. Lords and ladies would dread that you could reveal them as they are without hours of careful appearance management.”  
  
“Not the Emperor?”  
  
That reminded Marcurio, he needed to get details about the differences between the present day Empire and the Empire of the distant future. What he’d picked up in passing was that some people called the ‘Gavta’s ruled and that Hammerfell was the capital province instead of Cyrodiil. Wholly insufficient information, in his mind.  
  
Marcurio tutted, and ran his thumb underneath the cat’s eye. From what he could tell, that was one of Mohamara’s ‘spots’ that a less decent man could use to get the cat to do anything. “We don’t mess with the Emperor, love, he gets that from everyone else. Tullius men let him have his lies if he wants them so badly.”  
  
“I kinda pity him, then. He must be lonely.” The cat’s remaining eye shone with inner light, then he nodded. That Mysticism thing, the thief guessed. "Yep, he's got that one is the lonliest number thing going on."  
  
“His loneliness is of his own choosing. He opted not to take a second wife, or to have children after what happened to the _last_ ones.” The matter of succession wasn’t public knowledge, but Marcurio had it on good General-level authority that the Empire’s rule would pass to the lady Vici from Solitude should she outlive the Emperor. It was one of many reasons why his father’s garrison rarely left Haafingar. The elder Tullius had been in the running, but gently requested he be removed from it. Blood relations between the Mede and Tullius families were four generations removed, and Seneca had plans to retire after his current campaign.  
  
Ideally not in Skyrim, so Marcurio could enjoy some time without the possibility of familial visits.  
  
With the eyeshadow done, Marcurio concluded his make-up attempt. It ended up winning out over Jo’leens because she had gone so far as to make Orchendor’s face look like a giant butterfly with how much contouring and dusting she had done.  
  
\--  
  
Jarl Korir had to have been having a bad day, Orchendor noted. First, he’d amassed what forces he had left in anticipation of an invading army. But then he found out they were intending to settle in Winterhold. But then he found out they were all mages. Low, to high, to low again. It pleased the emaciated tojay that the Jarl was forced to accept them because so many of the caravan members had the coin to spend in the tavern and trading store--necessity won out over the Nord’s pride.  
  
Winterhold would one day be an artistic city, on the bleeding edge of magical research, and the site of the only Telvanni Tower in all Skyrim. But in the Fourth Era, it was literally four buildings on the edge of a cliff with the College on the other side of a battered stone bridge. Orchendor was pleased as punch to see the college that had _laughed_ at them when they applied in such disrepair.  
  
It enforced a notion of duality that he began to notice in himself the longer he stayed apart from his more divine half. While the true Mohamara was Kind, Orchendor was Cruel. The emaciated cat didn’t like it, even as he found visceral pleasure in watching the once-proud Jarl of Winterhold welcome them to his hold and Winterhold College crumble. On some level, he knew that it was wrong. And it was why he refused to accept any divine energy to empower himself or unnaturally repair the damage months of starvation had done. Cruelty combined with the power to kill on a whim would only spell disaster.  
  
But it was still funny to watch.  
  
It was just as fun to watch the College’s bridge guard, a high elf mage that was so strongly attuned to Destruction magic that on a Mysticism level she felt like a mighty warlord, seem utterly flummoxed by a hundred plus mages who sought enrollment. Such was her surprise that she went and fetched the Arch-Mage.  
  
Savos Aren, a simpering Dunmer mage who wore the hooded fur cloak that would later inspire Winterhold’s teaching uniform. Orchendor could tell in his sympathetic bonds that the man was under enormous pressure and used optimism to try and stave off a mental breakdown. There once had been a great man in Savos Aren, but it had been wrung out of him by bitter austerity. It was clear to Orchendor that the man had no financial sense, or he would realize austerity just didn’t work.  
  
Then they had the uncomfortable conversation about the college not having enough space to house a hundred plus students.  
  
“You have an Alteration Master on staff?” Mohamara asked while he gently rocked Jone.  
  
“Well, of course,” Aren responded. He seemed perplexed why a _Khajiit_ spoke for so many Men and elves but rolled with it. “But what does that have to do with the housing problem?”  
  
Orchendor and his pink self squinted at the Dunmer. The Caller squinted at the Dunmer. More than thirty novice Alterers squinted at the Dunmer. Marcurio gave Aren his neutral face of displeasure.  
  
“...We can use Alteration to make temporary housing,” the cat said as if he were explaining basic math to a mathematician. “Has your Alterer not been effecting repairs to the College?”  
  
“Oh! I’m afraid he’s our only Alteration mage on-staff… and he’s usually occupied teaching our apprentices.” Aren, once the plan was revealed, had no trouble following the idea from that. “Then again… I’m sure you have some students in that crowd who study Alteration? Why it could be a lesson for them!”  
  
“Wait, hold on.” Mohamara passed Jone off to Orchendor without looking at him, then looked at the status of the College. It was more put together than most Skyrim stone structures, but still in a state of active decay. An entire tower appeared to have fallen off at some point. “How busy is he being kept that he hasn’t been able to start on this beforehand? He’s actually Master tier, right?”  
  
Aren was shocked, chagrined, and affronted that Mohamara would ask such a question. But Orchendor could see that it was all bluster covering a state of mind bordering internal collapse. “Of course he’s Master tier, we don’t go around giving those titles away… is that an elder scroll?” At long last, the Arch-Mage seemed to have eyes enough in his head to notice the ornate scroll that hung in the air between the two tojay.  
  
“One thing at a time, sir. Are you overworking your staff, or is your staffer not skilled in construction applications?”  
  
Marcurio nodded appreciatively of how business-oriented and confident his beau had become in this field. It was always good to see the cat god taking charge of a situation instead of being pushed around by it.  
  
“Well, see, the college isn’t like the schools in the south that you might be used to Mr. Ahramani. We don’t assign coursework so much as we train students in the master-apprentice chain of teaching…”  
  
Orchendor noted how the Dunmer looked at Marcurio when he mentioned ‘schools in the south’. In the sympathetic bonds, he picked up notions such as a perception of decadence, and jealousy hidden behind faux-superiority. Fairly typical for Winterhold, from the emaciated cat’s perspective. He was distracted by Jone whining plaintively, which caused the emaciated cat to immediately take a wolf pelt from the transport box and wrap the pudgy kitten under another layer of warmth.  
  
“Huh. I didn’t think an entire city could just… go into the sea.”  
  
Orchendor tilted his ear to the source of the speech, then look with his eyes. Serana and Orthorn’s group of Pink Coats looked over the edge of the cliff to the ruins below.  
  
“Was kinda banking on Winterhold still being here,” the vampiress admitted. “Wanted to get out of this constant cold. A little cold is good for you but too much and it becomes annoying, know what I mean? Shame about all the lost architecture, though. Winterhold used to be as big as Haafingar when I was last here.”  
  
Of course, the main Mohamara put it together quickly that Serana had _seen_ Winterhold, had been there, and that something could be done about that. Orchendor was dragged along while Mohamara, Serana, and an elderly Nord mage who turned out to be the College’s Alteration Master began an arcane ritual of some kind. The emaciated cat simply didn’t care about the situation anymore.  
  
He focused on the pudgy baby in his arms, and on his sassy daughter when she would deign to be cuddled. While his main self was near-catatonic in the ritual linked with the mage and vampiress, Orchendor played peekaboo.  
  
While he played with the baby, a wonder took place. The pieces of Winterhold city that survived erosion in the sea rose up to hover in the air. And from those pieces, the city began to take shape once more.  
  
And Orchendor, still in the midst of peekaboo with Jone, found himself being loomed over by Thalmor. With the Friends of Llorona, a Vigilant of Stendarr roaming around somewhere, and Marcurio all floating around, the emaciated tojay felt no fear for having two of the Aldmeri Dominion’s minions in his personal space.  
  
“I recall only one tojay Khajiit being outside our records,” said the hoodless one, his skull oddly curvy for a high elf. “Here, we have not only another tojay that there are no records for, but a _tojay-raht_ as well. Our recordkeepers must be losing their touch.”  
  
The hooded Thalmor agreed and possibly expected Orchendor to be intimidated by how close they loomed in on him.  
  
But all he did was hold Jone close and start to lick the kitten’s head clean. The Thalmor weren’t worth the effort of acknowledging.  
  
Little did he know that his display of paternal affection was as good as a knife through the heart for both high elves. The hoodless one, Ancano, had recognized Mohamara from Elenwen’s party, but not the new tojay or the baby. So he, and his hooded assistant Estormo had gone to investigate the matter. The tojay was scrawny, perhaps he had been starved for a prolonged period, but the babe was more than a healthy weight. And when the adult leaned back in the snow to clean the infant, both high elves went red in the face and gestured sharply.  
  
To the ignorant men, it would seem a gesture of rage and affront at apparent disrespect. But to the elves in attendance, it was clear: they struggled to maintain composure in front of such primordial cuteness. The situation became only worse when the alfiq Khajiit, almost an adolescent, trotted by and found herself scooped up by the tojay and given a cleaning as well. Both Thalmor had to stomp off and find a private place to gush about the weapons-grade cutonium that they had just been exposed to.  
  
“Aren,” Ancano hissed as he recovered. “Aren has to be behind this. He’s somehow discovered our weakness to Khajiit, and is trying to use them to escape his noose.”  
  
Estormo was still red in the face, so he covered his face before he spoke. “Oh by the homeland, I can still see it when I close my eyes.” Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut and muffled an almost pained cry. “Oh no, now I’m picturing him and the other tojay being cute with the kittens together!”  
  
Ancano recoiled from the mental image as if it had slapped him in the mouth. He too couldn’t tolerate the cuteness, but his seniority allowed him to better recover. “We must find a way to correct this… perhaps the scrawny cat has a warrant for his arrest?”  
  
Estormo looked over Ancano’s shoulder as whatever heathen magic the other tojay was involved with came to a close. Winterhold city was restored as if it had never fallen into the sea. But that failed to catch the Thalmor’s eye. Wordlessly, he pointed.  
  
Ancano turned to see and hissed in pain.  
  
Some magical side-effect had taken hold of the other two people in the tojay’s ritual. Instead of a Nord vampiress and an elderly Nord mage, there was now a pair of additional tojay Khajiit extremely confused as to why they were smaller, fuzzier, and less equipped to fill out their wardrobes as before.  
  
The Thalmor commander bit into his leatherbound knuckles at the site of them. Aren’s power play had somehow found a way to make the doddering old Tolfdir into an adorably scruffy Khajiit. Though neither of them sported the cute fangs that Mohamara and, presumably, his kin did.  
  
“I’ll pen a letter to Elenwen,” Ancano said at last. “We need reinforcements for this.”  
  
\---  
.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We need to sanction Elsweyr and Black Marsh--they have the facilities necessary to refine cutonium to weapons grade. It's just a matter of time before they develop viable weapons of cute destruction


	61. Everbody stop becoming cats!

\---  
  
**Chapter 61:** Everbody stop becoming cats!  
  
The Mysticism link allowed three minds to converge for one purpose. A master magician, a living god, and a monster in human shape were the three to converge at that time and place. The living god was to supply the power for their endeavor, the master magician was to provide the necessary skills, and the human shape monster would provide the blueprints.  
  
They convened in what appeared to be a great Dwemer machine--they walked on metal platforms suspended from the ceiling, which through their link to the god the other two learned were called catwalks. Below them were massive furnaces, fed by some sort of fuel to provide power to the steam pistons that lined the walls and filled the space between catwalks. An army of duplicates of the living god walked around them, a workforce of child-sized cats exclusively.  
  
There was a brief dialogue between them and the living god, who seemed to radiate a warmth that drew out pleasant memories of good times at home, with those they’d cared about. For both the magician and monster, it was bittersweet for those memories were long ago and neither could say they’d ever feel such again. During the dialogue, a room was made for them, mostly empty with an enormous table of Dwemer metal. As they talked about what they would need, the metal changed. Like it was liquid and poured into a mold, the table took the shape of Winterhold city from ages past.  
  
The living god went to work on their portion of the task--the allocation of divine energy to bring the city back to life. This had the benefit of permitting the magician and monster to look around the divine realm.  
  
“I think our divine acquaintance might be the rainbowest Rainbow Man I’ve ever seen,” the monster said to the magician with her hands on her hips, looking upward.  
  
The magician, an elderly man had been occupied watching several child-sized cats bring an entirely new piston into the chamber and set it up for activation. Despite their small size, they seemed to work with prodigious strength and efficiency. “What makes you say that?”  
  
His fellow guest tapped his shoulder to draw his attention upward. All along the ceiling were stucco paintings of men in various forms of dress, undress, and mid-action. She then pointed to the piston tops that resembled muscular figures physically driving the piston’s locomotion. Finally, she indicated the walls, which as they watched were being fitted with a mosaic of the living god seated on an open giant clam shell while the handsome rogue the magician had glimpsed, but the monster seen often, rose from an active lava flow in the tasteful nude to meet him.  
  
“Hmm,” the magician said. “I dunno. It’s pretty rainbow-y, but to be honest it speaks more of an Imperial mindset more than anything.” He led the way down the catwalk, unimpeded by any of the cat-staff. “I don’t know about you but this is my first interaction with Aedric magic. Can you feel it? The air feels so thick with magicka that we’re more than likely breathing it in.”  
  
The monster nodded and followed after her junior without argument. Technically, she was at least an Era or two old, so few people would be her senior despite her mid-twenties appearance. “I’m picking up on that. It feels stronger than any mage’s lab I’ve ever been in.” Moisture gathered on her brow, and when she wiped it off she noticed it _sparkled_ like liquid lightning. “Wow, it’s so thick here it’s condensing.”  
  
“Really?” The magician stopped and turned back to her. “I didn’t notice anything different when I… oh.” He turned to the left and saw what was potentially the cause. “That might be why. Fascinating!”  
  
When the monster turned to see, she saw a huge double door built into the wall. The catwalk didn’t extend to the location, but there was an open gap in the safety railing to indicate there was one intended for that space. The door was covered in images of cats, faces she recognized from the mortal world, and flowering vines. At the top of the door, where it met the wall, was a plaque which marked it as ‘The Heart Chamber’. Once she learned that, the monster peeled her ears for noise. It was hard to pick up over the pistons and machinery of the main chamber, but she could discern a ‘ba-bump’ to indicate a heartbeat.  
  
“What do you think a living god’s heart looks like?” Immediately, without hesitation, the monster lept across the gap and stood in the doorway to the heart chamber. “I bet it’s just a big glowing sphere of divine energy.”  
  
“Now--wait!” The magician tried to stop her but was not quick enough. On either side of the gap, they stood. The monster was curious and unafraid. But the man was most certainly afraid. “Now see here, we have no idea what’s behind that door. It’s not easily available for a reason, you know! Caution will serve us well.”  
  
“Caution will also leave us with questions we’ll never answer,” the monster fired back as she crossed her arms over her chest. “Come on, how many times are you going to be in the domain of a god?” She unfolded her arms, gripped the doorframe with one hand and reached across the gap with the other. “Just a quick peek, then we go back to looking around. How’s that strike you?”  
  
The magician wanted to sputter and be firm in his stance of safety. But when he looked at the room around him, the wonderment in the place that he likely would never see again, and made his decision. Perhaps he would regret his decision, but at that moment his academic curiosity overwhelmed safety concerns. The old man reached out to take the monster’s hand, and let her help him across the gap she easily jumped.  
  
The door to the heart chamber swung inward, so all they had to do was to push on the handle-less door. A sudden thought occurred to the magician as the heavy Dwemer metal portal began to move: how would they close it again if there were no handles?  
  
That thought was wrung out of him by the ever more overbearing sound of a heartbeat. Given how pink the cat was on the outside, he expected the god’s heart to be a similar shade. But once they were inside, a soft sky blue light filled the room. Dwemer metal formed a chamber with many vaults and pillars, not unlike an Imperial basilica--but with architecture in the Nordic style. All along the floor, a glowing white-blue liquid ran through channels away from the source: a fountain from which liquid and the soft blue glow emerged.  
  
Neither of them said anything as they stared in wonderment. The sound of pistons faded until all they could hear was the overwhelming heartbeat that seemed to come from the fountain itself.  
  
“...I think this is his blood,” said the monster as she pointed at the white-blue liquid that seemed to vanish the moment it touched the doorway.  
  
“Fascinating, I think this disproves the theory that ebony is divine blood,” said the magician as he crouched down to examine it. He was careful not to _touch_ it. “It looks sort of like liquid crystal. Perhaps… oh, what was that strange Dwemer material that they warred internally over? Something related to Aetherius.” He shook his head while the monster joined him in his crouched position. “Either way, as long as we don’t touch it then we should be perfectly fine.”  
  
The monster looked at the liquid, and then the fountain, then back again. “Um. What if there’s some of it in the air? Like a water fountain makes the air around it more humid?”  
  
That gave the magician pause. Then he noticed his hands were turning into paws. “Oh. Oh dear.”  
  
\--  
  
When they emerged from the ritual, they were as cats. Tojay Khajiit specifically. Serana emerged slightly larger than Mohamara or Tolfdir, narrow in her build and with fangs that Mohamara’s overshadowed sticking down from her upper jaw. Tolfdir was scruffy looking, thin as Orchendor, and visibly gray throughout his fur. That both of them retained their hair drove home the fact that as Khajiit were concerned, Mohamara and Orchendor were bald.  
  
For a brief moment they were indecent--their clothes were sized for Nords. But Tolfdir’s Alteration skills fixed that problem with a literal snap of his fingers. Still, they distracted some students from the wonder of Winterhold city’s return. One, in particular.  
  
“Wait! We had the option of being turned into cats?!”  
  
“Giller, I swear on Malacath’s mashing molars….”  
  
**”I want to be a cat too!”**  
  
“That’s it! Imma kill ‘im!”  
  
Mohamara looked at the two new Khajiit and the rebuilt city then looked to his other self for help with the situation. “What in Oblivion caused _this?!_ ”  
  
Surprisingly, it was Yehochanan who responded, with a clacking of castanet claws. “They were curious as cats, so cats they became.” The crab thrashed when he suddenly found himself picked up by a pale tojay-raht woman with a monstrous temper, who shook him.  
  
“Well how do we unbecome cats, you fuzzy mudcrab?!” Her words were fueled with outrage that, perhaps, she didn’t actually deserve given her part in the situation.  
  
Tolfdir had adapted to the change it seemed, and the elderly tojay was quite amused with trying to capture his own tail. “Oh my, this is such fun! I haven’t had fun like this since I was an apprentice!”  
  
“Hey if you don’t want to be a cat, I’ll take your place!”  
  
**”Giller, stop running so I can stab you to death!”**  
  
Marcurio watched this play out and surreptitiously reached into his pocket to stroke the half of the Eye he had. He was engulfed in a fire for a moment, and when he emerged it was as a tawny-furred tojay still dressed in unseasonable silks, and elected to cause mischief. He feigned shock and dismay at his own transformation. “What?! Oh no, it’s spreading!”  
  
Suddenly panic began to spread among the mages as they fled the site of what appeared to be a cat-transformation plague. Aren directed students up into the college, the Pink Coats did a marvelous job of keeping anyone from being trampled to death.  
  
Orchendor paused from cleaning Jone to look up and see the crowd fleeing from a sudden plethora of Khajiit. Serana was still shaking the spider-crab, Tolfdir playing with his new tail, his pinker self looking at him for answers, and Marcurio making finger-wands at him while suddenly a tojay as well. Rather than try and make sense of the situation, Orchendor returned to cleaning Jone.  
  
“Am I the only one here who still has some sanity left?!” Mohamara pulled on his ears in light of his other self refusing to help with the situation. A few seconds later, one of the spellswords that had carried his box rushed past him, doubled-back, and ran in place.  
  
“Hey, this might be a little weird, but if you’re turning people into cats, I’m so _totally_ down for that.” His statement was cut off by another spellsword’s arrival on the scene, which prompted his hasty exit.  
  
“Love, too much sanity is a bad thing, remember?” Marcurio commented and made use of his relatively equal height to Mohamara to capture the pink tojay in a hug and rub their faces together. “In other news, how do you like my Khajiit shape? Turns out your Eye has some nifty shapeshifting powers.”  
  
“You’re handsome, but that’s a given. Wait--shapeshifting….” Mohamara puffed up to almost twice his size while still in the thief’s hug, his fangs were bared and he bapped the thief-mage as strongly as he could with his tail. “You did this on purpose?! I was afraid I messed with you in a way I couldn’t reverse!”  
  
“So _is_ or _isn’t_ there a way to reverse this,” Serana snarled as she shook Yehochanan more emphatically. “Spill it, mudcrab!”  
  
Calmly, J’zargo made his presence known and separated the First Servitor from Serana by holding them apart in his hands. The vampiress spit-hissed like she was naturally a tojay as she clawed the air to get at Yehochanan.  
  
“I understand your shock with the change,” Tolfdir commented with his own tail in his mouth. “But consider that I _did_ warn you about the possible dangers of poking around in there.”  
  
“This!” Serana all but roared and displayed that she certainly did have claws as she slashed at J’zargo’s arm. “Is not! The time! For ‘I told you so’s!”  
  
“Well, we’re not _dead_ , young lady, so there’s really no rush to get the issue fixed.” Tolfdir spat out his tail so he could attempt to catch it again. Despite his hesitation, he seemed to adjust to the change with grace.  
  
“You know,” Marcurio mentioned while he effortlessly restrained the divine pink cat’s outrage. “You look way cuter with long fur, maybe we should look into making this permanent?” His smugness was met with a tail baffed directly into his nose. “Oh come on, I never made this much of a fuss when you kept chopping pieces of yourself off with no guarantee they’d grow back.”  
  
“You _should_ have,” Mohamara hissed. “It was obviously problematic for you and I was a bad husband for not being able to notice it at the time and help you work through those problems. All of which doesn’t make you making me worry like this any better!”  
  
“Don’t you go insulting my husband like that!”  
  
Mohamara baffed Marcurio in the face again since he had no other recourse.  
  
Jarl Korir, stunned by the miraculous return of his ancestor’s city, could only stare in wonderment as the foreign god responsible took two Nords and an Imperial and turned them into cats, seemingly as payment. All in all, he was fine with that, they were mages and thus he didn’t particularly care for their welfare. The chaos that resulted afterward was also acceptable, given his city was back. At last, Ulfric would take them seriously! He would be worthy of respect! If his father was alive, the old man would finally love him!  
  
He stopped to consider that last train of thought and completely missed the two Thalmor who walked directly by him up to the College.  
  
\---


	62. Whole Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orchendor gets back on Team Mohamara!

 

  
\---  
  
**Chapter 62:** Whole Again.  
  
Mohamara and Orchendor played patty-cake while the apprentices were admitted to the college. Behind them, fabric and furs appeared from thin air, conjured from the dessert desert by Orthorn and Serana in her cat form. These were used by the pink tojay’s Mysticism to be assembled into Winterhold style college robes for the new arrivals, as the college had run out long before.  
  
Marcurio sat with the kittens, watched the tojay work. “I wonder how much more efficient you could make one of my silk farms just by being in proximity, love,” he commented in the hopes of getting a commitment from the cat on where their mutual household would be -- Haafingar was nice, but the Rift was gorgeous.  
  
But Mohamara and Orchendor had tuned out the world, to exist only in the Mysticism chain of send and receive they had established. For too long, some lingering problems had been festering between them, and they’d agreed to talk.  
  
“You won’t accept any power from me. Why? It is yours, too.” The pink cat asked the naturally colored one. Mohamara’s natural colors had long been sublimated -- he was now mostly pink with stripes of pale blue, and pale lime green.  
  
“I am afraid,” said Orchendor back within the same patty-cake connection. When they made the next one, he spoke again through it. “With our power and my rage, we would become a monster. And all the good we have done will be undone.”  
  
“Your rage is mine.” The connection broke and came together again. “My patience is yours. We have been in the place where we let fear rule us -- remember how unhappy we were?”  
  
Orchendor hesitated on the next connection, so Mohamara reached out and made the connection again, and sent the memory of finding out the meaning of their name. ‘I love you.’  
  
The next few connections weren’t with words -- they were memories, feelings, information. Orchendor passed on how it felt to spend so long without seeing the sun. Mohamara passed on the experience of making a human friend at last. Orchendor relayed how isolated he felt, with Peryite blocking his prayers. Mohamara shared with him the sight of Meridia’s palace. Orchendor shared the pain of having fleas infest his fur -- itching that wouldn’t stop. And Mohamara shared the joy of flight.  
  
The barriers between them broke down just a little -- the Aurbis began to suspect that these two cats who were biologically similar, and now had the same memories as each other were the same person. It began to exert pressure on them to recombine.  
  
With each connection, each patty cake, Orchendor became less gaunt and more green. His fur color became the same shade of pale lime green that was present in Mohamara’s stripes -- while Orchendor’s stripes became pale blue and pastel pink. His eyes changed color, from grey-blue as Mohamara’s had been before ascension, to sky blue and bright pink. It was a moment straight out of an Akaviri animated show.  
  
Marcurio looked at this and frowned. “You know, logical deduction makes me think there will eventually be a third one that’s blue.” He petted his adoptive children and let them play with the tassels of his scarf. “Mom is going to have things to say about having three husbands… Mostly things daddy won’t want either of you two to hear, huh?”  
  
Jode looked up at him, curious, and asked: “Dicks?”  
  
Marcurio shook his head. “Even worse things. She might… cuss.”  
  
The kitten gasped.  
  
\--  
  
The green and pink tojay sat near the rebuilt docks of Winterhold city with their children. Mohamara fed Jone from a bottle, while Orchendor sat nearby and watched Jode use her flight to bounce between ice floes in the Sea of Ghosts. The ice floes came from mages training along the water to freeze the sea water -- to master frost Destruction magic.  
  
Up in the college, The Caller was working out a settlement with the Arch-Mage about their departure from the college and the transformation of one of their senior staff into a Khajiit.  
  
Savos was a good man, but Mohamara wanted more to let his daughter play on the ice than talk to the mages. If the damned scroll didn’t keep the two tojay shackled together, then Orchendor could have used their swimsuit to go out and teach Jode how to swim -- but the scroll did, so they both would have had to watch Jode, or neither could. So Mohamara chose time with his daughter over politics and the respect of the college.  
  
The vampire Khajiit, Serana, she seemed stunned by his choice. So much so that while the two tojay kicked their feet over the side of the docks, she approached them with catlike tread.  
  
“You know, the Arch-Mage probably doesn’t think too highly of you for letting someone he actively dislikes speak for you, right?” The pale tojay vampire asked their backs with no preamble.  
  
Mohamara turned and looked at her with his eyepatch. “Probably. But Jode wanted to play on the water.” He shrugged and went back to watching the floes drift out for the Big Moon to play on them.  
  
“And… that’s more important than your group’s reputation?” The Khajiit’s duo’s answer, a mutual head nod of affirmation confused her even further. “But… there would always be another time for her to play out here. Perhaps after they found a way to separate you two?”  
  
“I refuse to compromise my children’s happiness because it’s convenient for me,” Orchendor replied. “They didn’t ask to come into the world -- I have a responsibility to ensure they’re happy while they’re here. That’s what parents _do_ , and as the god of family, I must lead by example.”  
  
“Hey, that cat dude makes a lot of sense. Maybe we should go visit our kid at some point?”  
  
“Giller, he’s perfectly happy with his grandma while we’re out here learning how to be mages. Don’t be such a worry-wart.”  
  
Serana waved the peanut gallery off and tried to articulate a response to the cat’s assertion. “But… there would always be _another_ day for it.”  
  
“Not from her perspective,” both technicolor tojay responded at once. Jone was burped and hidden away in his fur wrappings to keep warm. “All she would see was she asked for some of her daddy’s time, and he told her no.”  
  
The vampire had a visceral reaction to that -- perhaps because a god had said it. She suddenly flashed back to her own childhood, back when the answer to any request of her father to spend time with her was ‘no’. “I guess I’m not used to people whose children are their priorities.”  
  
“Well, we’ll explain it to you as best we ca--...” The cats trailed off and stared intently at the water. Serana couldn’t understand what they were doing, so she came around to look at them. Both tojay’s faces were locked in terror.  
  
Out on the water, a black dorsal fin had crested the water. Then it was joined by more. A pod of whales, fifty strong. The mages enjoyed their new guests, and the chirping cries they made, but clearly the tojay didn’t.  
  
“Hey, what’s the mat--” The pink one shoved Jone into her hands quickly, and both tojay lept off the pier at once, only to be caught in the air as the scroll didn’t go with them. “Whoa, what’s with you two?”  
  
Both tojay tried desperately to force the scroll to let them go, but it wouldn’t cross onto the water for an unknown reason.  
  
“Jode, sweetie,” Mohamara called as he gave up. “Come to daddy! Playtime’s over!”  
  
A whale bumped the ice floe the kitten rested on, and brought the Big Moon dangerously close to the water’s surface. She seemed perplexed, more curious about the strange fish than she wanted to stop playing.  
  
  
“Jode, daddy said playtime’s over,” Orchendor called, and strained against the bonds of the scroll. “Come to daddy, please.”  
  
“Something up I’m not seeing?” Serana turned to ask Giller, who shrugged. Her superior to humans hearing let her pick up on a whispered conversation between the two halves of the same god.  
  
“They’re gonna eat her,” Mohamara said in a near-panic over and over with increasing speed.  
  
“Qorach -- get out there and help her!” Orchendor hissed.  
  
“My metallic body is too heavy to float or swim,” the flat-snake said with clear regret.  
  
Jode wasn’t helping matters any. She could see her Momamama’s fear as clear as day, it colored the air like smoke, and she didn’t understand what made Momamama so afraid. They were just big fish! Then she saw one of them crest the water, and open its mouth to lick at her. In her young head, she couldn’t help noticing how the fish’s teeth looked like her claws.  
  
Like… her claws.  
  
_Someone mean had stolen Momamama’s claws and wouldn’t give them back…_  
  
_Teeth that looked like her claws…_  
  
_Momamama was so afraid…_  
  
Suddenly the kitten let out a growl that was more befitting a full-grown sabre cat. “It was you!” She snarled, hissed, and puffed up -- her divine power let her swell up to the point where she was the size of a sabre cat and keep going. “You stole Momamama’s claws! So you could have teeth!”  
  
The two technicolor tojay suddenly remembered they were telekinetic when their daughter tried to dive into the water to fight an entire pod of apex predators. She floated in the air, gigantic and furious to the shore where her father’s halves began to admonish her for not listening. She tried to defend herself, saying she was trying to get their claws back, but to no avail.  
  
Serana considered this while she held the sleeping Jone. “Wait… if he doesn’t have claws, do I?”  
  
Giller promptly took one of her hands and pressed his finger into the central paw pad. Claws flicked out from the vampiress’ fingertips, which she beheld in wonderment.  
  
“Huh. Thanks, Giller. But touch me without permission again and I’ll slice your face.”  
  
“Hey, I’m the only one who gets to slash Giller’s face!”  
  
“And you’re not very good at it, either! Augh, my face!”  
  
\--  
  
It wasn’t enough! Alduin feasted on the souls of Nord dead in their Aetherial dwelling, but it wasn’t enough! He couldn’t recapture even a spark of the power he’d had with the gem on his brow. The World-Eater had feasted so much that he threw himself on the doors to Shor’s hall, to attempt feasting on the heroes of legend, only to be rebuffed and banished from Sovngarde. He was adrift in the creatia ocean that was Aetherius, a mote of black in an expanse of golden light. There were more realms in Aetherius where he could feed -- the realm of Khajiit dead wasn’t even completed, he could have flown in with no problems! He could have, had not a cluster of star-orphans swarmed him as he approached. They pursued him through the stasis of Aetherius like river otters after a crocodile. If he didn’t escape, he would be nibbled to death!  
  
So he used the Thu’um to bitch out of another situation his ego would not permit to be called a failure. He had aimed for Mundus, but missed by a few slivers of eternity -- or so he would claim. In reality, his memories of death weakened him so much that the Magna-Ge were able to harm him, and he fired his Thu’um in the completely wrong direction -- into Oblivion.  
  
Alduin’s bitching out had met its match -- in Oblivion he couldn’t call on Akatosh’s power to bolster his own. The waters of Padomaic creation burned him like acid -- he found that he had a want of air for which there was none.  
  
Mehrunes Dagon kicked at him as he passed the deadlands, their ancient grudge well remembered. Sheogorath caught him and dressed him in a giant frilly nighty and nightcap, then sent him bouncing off with a size-proportionate pacifier in his mouth. Boetheia and Clavicus Vile both dared _laugh_ at the World Eater as he drifted past their realms. Molag Bal positioned his realm in Alduin’s path and wound up a swing from his mace to send the black, babified, dragon off bouncing through Oblivion like a rubber ball.  
  
As luck would have it, he was bounced around with enough force to break through into one of the smaller realms. It was full of mortal souls for him to feast upon, he could tell! But there was something… wrong with the air. It burned as all places in Oblivion did… but it felt _hungry_.  
  
Giant gems, big as mountains, floated in the air. Ruins of structures littered the dead wastelands. His younger brother, Durnehviir, flew through the skies and cried a warning to him. Alduin World Eater realized too late that there was something to fear -- as ancient souls smelled the fear of death in him, and used their dominion over their realm to hold him fast while they began to feed on his draconic soul.  
  
As it turned out, it _did_ hurt when a dragon’s soul was ripped from their bones.  
  
  
\--  
  
  
The downside to leaving his negotiating power with someone the Arch-Mage actively disliked was that he assigned tasks he disliked for the Friends of Llorona to make up for their abandonment of the college, which Mohamara naturally had to do as well.  
  
Such as helping the college defile an ancient tomb-city in Saarthal. The starting point for all the Nord/Elf hate, when the Snow Elves destroyed the city and killed every man, woman, and child they could. He divided his Pink Coats into groups to watch out for the other apprentices -- and J’zargo was given the task of looking after the College’s own apprentices when he ran out of Pink Coats.  
  
With Marcurio gone back south to tend to his business ventures, Mohamara felt the cold a little more keenly and found himself missing the thief. Frequent callings with him and Yagraz helped keep it at bay, however.  
  
And his eye had finally grown back! That had been trippy for him to realize, as his optic nerve suddenly became overloaded with information. The new eye was green, like Orchendor’s fur. Mohamara and Orchendor together seemed to offend the High Elves on principle, as they all became red-faced and immediately left the room whenever the two arrived. Perhaps they disliked heterochromia?  
  
But back to Saarthal, things were going as well as widespread desecration could go until the two tojay noticed an amulet on the wall that glowed with ongoing magic. There was a minor issue of them being trapped by spikes, but the tojay could simply wriggle through. Tolfdir had proven that as he wriggled in with minimal difficulty. Serana had a bit more trouble, as her cape got stuck in the collapsible sections of the spikes. But she made it in as well.  
  
They made quite the party, four child-sized Khajiit and a floating scroll. It was like something out of a children’s adventure book -- which gave Orchendor the idea to make their adventures into a children’s adventure book.  
  
Mohamara shot him down. “There are too many instances of us having to escape peril by getting naked,” the pink cat told the green as he crushed a Draugr with Mysticism. They had become more of an annoyance at some point. And crushing them kept Serana from getting necromantic ideas about what to do with them. She was forced to rely on the Atronachs that Orthorn had taught her to summon. All while Tolfdir walked in the middle of them, with his eyes glued to the amulet that had drawn their attention, then opened a secret passage.  
  
“Fascinating, this appears to be an amulet of religious significance,” Tolfdir-tojay announced with excitement. “See, how these runes all indicate the twelve gods of the Nordic pantheon? This is clearly an older amulet, as it lists Alduin and Akatosh as separate deities.”  
  
“That’s not an amulet,” Serana corrected as she directed her flaming Familiar to rush into a cluster of Draugr and explode. “It’s an earring. My mother had a set like those.”  
  
“Well that just raises _more_ questions! Oh, how interesting -- it’s so wonderful to work with a knowledgeable lady! You give an old man hope!” Tolfdir was beside himself with this new information and began to wax on the possible significance. Particularly, if the ‘amulet’ was an earring, where was the other one?  
  
Serana was thrown off her game by Tolfdir complimenting her for her knowledge that it was necessary for Mohamara to kill a Deathlord that looked to make her a resting place for its ebony battleax. The weapon began to float behind them along with Chillrend, to be used as needed.  
  
Eventually, they worked their way down through Saarthal to a chamber that was actually on the same level as the entrance, just inaccessible from the surface. Serana and Tolfdir spent a good five minutes wondering how they had gone up by going down, but the two tojay gods had an answer for them.  
  
They clapped their hands together and produced a rainbow as they spread them apart, while the word ‘magic’ appeared in pink lettering in all capitals.  
  
The chamber was big, it wasn’t natural, and it had a giant floating orb in the middle covered in Aedric runes. And when he looked at it, the Meridian amulet he wore lit up slightly brighter. “Five septims says that’s the Eye of Magnus,” he told his other half.  
  
“But… it’s not an eye,” Orchendor said while they approached it, heedless of the powerful Draugr wizard that rose to challenge them. His connection to the ‘eye’ was snipped like thread, and he was promptly crushed into re-death. Ultimately, he was unimportant except that his amulet matched a portion of the earring that Tolfdir had with him.  
  
The tojay decided to be nice and used Orchendor’s teleporting magic to go to the locations of the rest of the broken earring, kill the Draugr that held them, and fused the pieces back into one for Tolfdir to gush over. Their effort was rewarded with a wave of nausea from over-using the teleportation power of Mysticism that caused them to vomit onto the re-dead Draugr. Poor guy. He’d probably done something in his life to deserve being thrown up on by two people, but he’d just been disposed of like trash a few minutes prior. It was overkill.  
  
“If that’s not the Eye of Magnus… what is it?” Serana posed the question to the nauseous Khajiiti gods.  
  
Mohamara waved his hand in the orb’s direction. “Oh, it’s definitely ‘of Magnus’, just not the Eye. It’s…” The pink tojay squinted at it and looked around and squinted at it. “I think it’s an ovum. Lots of female connections, raw power in abundance….” He looked over at his green self. “Can you confirm?”  
  
Orchendor threw up the last of his lunch on the Draugr and unsteadily got to his feet to look at the orb. After a minute of squinting, he nodded. “Yes. I agree -- that’s an Aedric ovum, alright.”  
  
“Okay,” Serana asked, annoyed but clearly trying to be patient. “Assume I don’t know what that word means.”  
  
The two halves of the same god looked at themselves, then at her. “Um. An ovum is a female reproductive structure. Basically, it’s a god waiting to be born.”  
  
“So that,” she gestured, exasperated, to the floating orb surrounded in inorganic organic-looking structures and covered in runes, “is a divine… egg?”  
  
“Mhm. Probably… this was supposed to be Magnus, but Meridia never got around to actually having him fertilized by Lorkhan.” Orchendor rubbed the back of his neck while Mohamara pinched the bridge of his nose. “...Maybe we can call dad and --”  
  
“No,” the pink tojay cut him off right away.  
  
“You know what, I’ve had just about enough of today,” Serana said as she picked up Tolfdir and carried him past the divine egg with the earrings in his hands. “I’m going back to the college and I’m going to have a nice nap until things make sense again.”  
  
\---

 

 


	63. Mistakes

**Chapter 63:** Mistakes.  
  
“What do you mean ‘no’?”  
  
Mohamara and Orchendor crossed their arms and met the confused expression of Savos Aren with determination. “We mean ‘no’, it isn’t a complex concept,” Mohamara fired back.  
  
“Orthorn,” Orchendor called out without breaking eye contact. “Do you know what ‘no’ means?”  
  
The High Elf peeked in from outside the windows the Arch-Mage’s study and nodded. “It depends on which version you’re meaning, they all sound the same, but mean wildly different--”  
  
“Thank you, Orthorn,” the two tojay said in unison. “Go back to what you were doing.”  
  
Savos took his eyes off the two guests of his college to look at his window and then back to the cats. “What _is_ he doing out there?”  
  
Mohamara shrugged. “Probably trying to climb up the walls of the college the way our daughter does.”  
  
“Ah.” That seemed to satisfy Savos, and he moved past Orthorn’s buffoonishly competent ways. “Well… what would it take for you to consent to a teaching position here, then?”  
  
“Kick the Thalmor out.” Mohamara and Orchendor were resolute in their stance even as Savos tried to cajole them into lessening their requests. “We understand that you are afraid of the Thalmor. We get that they’re strong in ways that you can’t seem to put words to.” Mohamara and Orchendor took the Dunmer’s hands and led him to his usual sitting chair. “But they are a toxic group -- and would abuse our knowledge. We cannot risk them learning from us more than they have already.”  
  
“Young man -- I am sure your knowledge in Mysticism and enchanting are potent, but what use could they possibly have for such things? They have plenty of magic already.” Savos tried so hard to not sound bitter about that. “The college could really use a fresh perspective -- some new blood, to reinvigorate--”  
  
Mohamara looked up at him to catch his gaze with an intense look. Orchendor spoke out. “We offer you a fresh perspective, then. Khajiit says you must get rid of the Thalmor to get what you want.” When Savos looked like he was going to argue, Orchendor spoke again. “How many times has a student put forth new ideas, or challenged the ways that the Thalmor agree with… then suddenly, they vanish?”  
  
The silence was his answer. Savos steeled his expression, the way he’d had to when facing the friends of lost apprentices. “I’m not sure what you’re implying is in good faith.”  
  
“It isn’t,” Mohamara agreed. “Because the Thalmor doesn’t operate in good faith.” The cat’s eyes glowed with some strange Psijic magic. “I can see them as clearly as you see me. I can hear their dying words, feel the pain they felt as they were cut down. By the monsters you allowed to stay in your college. Would you like a transcription?”  
  
“I….” Savos floundered in the face of magic he knew little about. Just as he did with the Thalmor. He froze, horrified, when the cat spoke with a voice distinctly not his own.  
  
_”Why? We just want to use magic to chill mead! What could be so wrong with that?!”_  
  
The other cat replied, with a voice he recognized as Ancano’s minion, Estormo. _”Simple really. The use of magic to speed up the production of food, or increase its shelf life represents an intolerable line of inquiry as far as the Dominion is concerned. It isn’t your research specifically that’s the issue, but what would come afterward. Terribly sorry.”_  
  
Savos stared, horrified, at the two Khajiit and yanked his hands free from their grip to stand and walk away. “That was Borvir’s voice…” He said, shocked and dismayed. “W-we thought he’d just left the college.”  
  
“No, you didn’t,” Mohamara chided gently. The cats followed after Savos, relentless. “You knew that the Thalmor were killing _some_ of them, you just didn’t know which ones specifically -- and Borvir had directly challenged the Thalmor before he left. You were afraid to investigate because then they might decide to kill the whole college, not just a few apprentices.”  
  
“You told yourself it was necessary,” Orchendor added as they circled the Arch-Mage. “You always do when you don’t want to seriously reflect on the issue. Missing students.”  
  
“Thalmor justicars roaming the countryside with impunity.”  
  
“Slaving your friend’s souls to bind a monster.”  
  
_That_ cut Savos to the bone, as memories flooded back. The Arc-Mage took a step back and looked at the circling Khajiit with a new light. No one but him and the gods had known what happened that night, so how could these cats have discovered it? The thought that his friend’s resting place had been disturbed was enough to let Savos get his metaphorical feet back on the ground. “And just where did you find out about that, _hmm?_ Delving where you ought not?”  
  
Mohamara and Orchendor shook their heads. “We know because this issue ties into the other. The pain you feel now is the same you felt then -- that you blundered into a situation and people have to suffer to get you out again.” Both cats spoke as one. For a moment it appeared that there was only one Khajiit standing there, but Savos’ eyes must have been playing a trick on him. For a second, he saw someone else -- whom he knew to be dead.  
  
“But the problem with that line of thinking is you are making other people suffer for _your_ mistakes,” Orchendor added, his tone sharp. “You have two strong legs, stand on them for once.” The green tojay put his hands on his hips and glared at Savos while the pink one tried to look more understanding.  
  
“The first big step to fixing this current problem might just start from fixing your old one,” Mohamara offered. “Atmah and Hafnar deserve to rest after so long, don’t you think?” While the green cat offered condemnation, the pink one offered absolution.  
  
Savos had had _enough_ of these all-knowing Khajiit running around the college and through his memories. He’d gotten enough of that with the Augur back before the accident. The Dunmer mage steeled his sense of affront, which all proper mages possessed, and met the looks of contempt and understanding with outrage. “And who are you to say these things to me? Who do you think you are -- going through my memories?” He crossed his arms and scoffed, to hide the shame. “Only the gods may judge my actions.”  
  
“How fortunate then,” the two Khajiit said at once. “That we are Llorona, God of Kindness, Life, and Love.”  
  
Savos had no retort for that. His last line of defense had been the claim of only accepting divine judgment. And there it had been standing the whole time. “Oh.” He spoke without changing his outraged expression any. “S-so I should probably plan a trip to Labyrinthian, shouldn’t I?”  
  
The divine cats nodded.  
  
\--  
  
While Savos went to speak to his second in command, the two cats turned to look at a seemingly empty patch of air. “You can come out, now.”  
  
From nothing stepped a High Elf in robes the same hue as his skin, edged in pale blue and red. A Psijic monk, on Nirn for the first time in decades. “It is an honor to meet one who has completed the endeavor,” spoke the Psijic respectfully, and he bowed his head. “Has my observation offended you?”  
  
“No,” Mohamara said and trotted up to him. “We just wanted to ask you to update your records while you’re here.”  
  
The High Elf, baffled, stood up and arched his brow.  
  
Orchendor languidly walked to join his other half. “Khajiit is afraid we won’t be pursuing the Psijic scholarship any further for the foreseeable future. Could you tell our student counselor we’re sorry, on our behalf?”  
  
“May I ask why you won’t be pursuing the scholarship, holy one?” The Psijic tapped on the thin air like he was pushing invisible buttons. An advanced application of Mysticism -- imagining a slate to send a message.  
  
“We want to spend time with our children before we have to send them off to learn… in Elsweyr. Perhaps, if your Order returns to Mundus by that time -- we could re-enroll?”  
  
The Psijic nodded and smiled warmly. “If we our outstanding extraplanar business is concluded, we might return before the turn of the Era. The Order would be happy to help you back to your time period if that is your preference?”  
  
Mohamara and Ochendor looked at each other, then at the Psijic. “The Order is willing to pick a fight with Sheogorath over this?”  
  
The Psijic nodded. “Though the outstanding agreement your… husband has with Nocturnal prevents us from migrating him, and your Orc friend’s Dragon Break needs to resolve before we can migrate her back.”  
  
The cats shook their heads. “In that case, we’ll take the long way home.”  
  
Mohamara added, “thank you for the offer!”  
  
And Orchendor hopped up to stand on his pink self’s shoulders to speak to the Psijic at eye level. “And kindly refrain from that plan of yours to swipe our….” He looked down at the other him. “Younger? Older?”  
  
Mohamara scrunched up his face. “Well, they’d be born relatively now-ish… we won't be for sixteen thousand years. Our own kids are older than we are, technically.”  
  
“Dad would be proud.” He looked back at the High Elf. “Refrain from your plan to swipe our older sibling before they’re born. If you would be so kind.”  
  
The High Elf looked distinctly uncomfortable looking the more aggressive half of Kindness in the eye as he made a request. To get out of that situation, he agreed to the terms set forward and returned to being two degrees to the left of the future.  
  
\--  
  
Savos Aren found the god of kindness to be surprisingly cruel. He’d generously offered to let one of his most competent minions accompany Aren on the quest to undo his terrible mistake. It was an offer he’d accepted immediately -- he wasn’t a young man anymore, and worse; he was afraid of the monster they would find down there.  
  
What the divine Khajiit had neglected to inform him of was that his choice for the mission was The Caller, as she’d taken to calling herself.  
  
He’d wanted to refuse, to leave on his own out of spite, but he couldn’t turn down the help of a Masterclass mage, even if it was one with whom he had personal animosity. At least the Caller had been upset with her appointment to the position as well.  
  
The two of them walked in silence down the road from Winterhold. Eyes focused on the task ahead, and they each refused to acknowledge the other’s presence. At least it was that way until they passed down the road near the abandoned fort, Karstav. Some necromancers had taken up residence there and tried to attack them.  
  
Savos had only intended to put out enough of a show for the necromancers to back off and leave them be -- but the Caller hunted them down and put each and every one to a screaming end with a strange dagger that she conjured from nowhere.  
  
“Was that _really_ necessary?” He asked her, outraged. Her pink robes were bloodied from her kills -- but the viscera seemed to slide off like water off an oiled raincoat. “You didn’t even offer a chance to surrender!”  
  
The Caller dismissed the strange dagger, and in her hand was a purple gem of unknown providence to Savos. She scoffed and put the gem away. “A chance to surrender is not always offered -- they’d certainly offered none to the travelers they ambushed previously.” As if the topic was over, the Caller started back down the road.  
  
Savos rushed ahead to turn and stand in her path. “They were defeated, and you slaughtered them! I thought you served the god of kindness.”  
  
The Caller looked down at him like she found him an insignificant bug. “Perhaps it’s the Altmer in me, but I took one lesson of the Master’s to heart on this issue.” Suddenly she reminded Savos how much taller she was than he by looming over him. “Sometimes the kindest we can be is make it hurt less than they _deserve_.”  
  
“Oh, so you’re cleared to give people what they _deserve_ now? By whose reckoning?” Savos refused to be bullied by the Caller and stood his ground. “Well, Kore?”  
  
She had nothing to say.  
  
“I saw you teaching that vampire Khajiit…, and Phinis says she knows enough about _certain topics_. More than can be gleaned from mere academic study.” The Dunmer narrowed his red eyes at the Altmer and approached her, defiant. “Will you make it hurt less for _her_ when you butcher her as well?”  
  
The Caller sneered down at him. “You cannot seriously expect me to liken glorified mage bandits who prey upon random travelers to a lost girl eager to learn.” She shook her head and pushed past Savos on the road. “You haven’t changed, still touting false equivalencies.”  
  
“And neither have _you_ changed! Refusing to see that your behavior is arbitrary!” He wouldn’t let the issue go, and followed after her. The wind changed direction, blew the snow at a new angle relative to the sun. This revealed three snowy sabre cats following behind the elves, silent, and unnoticed by either of them. “Those necromancers posed no further threat -- we had destroyed their undead minions.”  
  
“‘No further threat’?” The Caller whirled on the Arch-Mage, incredulous. “Did you miss the fireballs they threw at us? Had the Master not rebuilt the city, they could have burned down all of Winterhold before your college could stop them!” She shook her hands, unable to comprehend what Savos’ intentions were. “What was your plan, then? Take away their minions and just _leave_? Give them a sudden need for _new_ minions and let them go on their way to kill some people for materials?”  
  
“My way would have given them the chance to see the error of their ways -- perhaps change their whole look on life.” Savos scowled and put his hands on his hips to lend himself more authority via body language. “It would be better than killing them.”  
  
“No! No, it wouldn’t be!” The Caller pulled at her hair as she tried to express her frustration with the shorter man. “Gods, this is just like when you let the Thalmor into the college! They’re not going to learn, or change their ways, they just use those opportunities to betray you!”  
  
“And how are they different than that vampire, then?! What makes her so special when they aren’t?”  
  
The Caller gripped Savos by the shoulder, lifted him off his feet with strength in no way implied by her waify nature, and shook him. “Because she understood it was wrong!” She spoke through clenched teeth and breathed hard. “She knew it was wrong, and she stopped when she was asked. Because Serana doesn’t see a possible _tool to be used_ when she looks at a person!” The Caller forced herself to calm down and let Savos go.  
  
Understandably, he backed away from her quickly.  
  
“When they died, there was no hesitation to use each other’s bodies as fodder. They didn’t see each other as friends, colleagues, or people. They saw ‘emergency supplies’. When they looked at one another.” The Caller got herself completely under control and settled into a smoldering glare. “Serana sees people as people. She’ll do it, maybe not as a last resort, but she doesn’t keep them any longer than she needs them. And since she’s learned how to call Atronachs, she hasn’t done it at all. _That’s_ what makes her special.”  
  
A sudden chuffing noise drew their attention to their side. Whereupon the found three white-coated sabre cats, who stood before them like they wished a conversation. Neither had an opportunity to wonder who they hadn’t been attacked yet before the strange crystals in the Caller’s robes lit up sufficiently to be seen from outside.  
  
“Oh.” The Caller took the purple gem of hers out and held it up. One of the sabre cats sniffed at it, chuffed, then gently bonked her hand with his head. “This is... you?”  
  
All three of the cats chuffed once more and rubbed themselves against the Caller like she was part of their familial group.  
  
“Ah, so your god didn’t just send you to force a moral debate every five minutes,” Savos snidely commented. “But because you had some meat shields of your own.” He bitched his face right off when the three cats looked at him as one, all with the look of an impending pounce. “Um. G-good kitties?”  
  
“Sorry boys,” the Caller told her three new sabre cat friends. “I can’t let you eat him.” She met Savos’ eyes with an inscrutable expression. “No matter how many problems it would solve if he were dead.”  
  
Savos sighed. “I guess now isn’t the time to ask if you ever signed those divorce papers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A group of sabre cats is called an 'ambush' so you know.


	64. Bourgeois Busting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cats talk and Yagraz gets the spotlight!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, the first third doesn't match the other two thirds, but I wanted to include it to provide some screentime to the two cursed cats.

  
\---  
**Chapter 64:** Bourgeois busting.  
  
Despite the loss in height, Tolfdir found he rather enjoyed being a Khajiit. His bed was bigger, his joints didn’t hurt quite so badly, he could see in the dark, and he had no need to carry knives anymore! While being a Nord had occupied much of his time during his misspent youth, it no longer mattered to him overmuch. The village he’d been born in was long gone -- destroyed by bandits that the Jarl had not dealt with in time. No one but he remembered Dunlain anymore.  
  
So he had thought before he met the young lady who was blessed with a long life. She had been to Dunlain when it had been a new settlement. Serana, he remembered her name being. They had both been cursed for their curiosity to live as Khajiit. And since then found a rapport in being so transformed, along with a deep thirst for knowledge.  
  
“And, they had this weird ritual,” Serana said as they both sat in the library of the college -- the Arcaneum -- at a table while they exchanged their perspectives of Dunlain. “They would take a gourd, hollow it out, and carve out pieces. They said it was cheaper than getting covers for their candles.” There was quaint amusement in her tone, which Tolfdir took to mean the practice was not common among Nord settlements at the time.  
  
He noted this in his notes, fascinated by how the practice had started. “By the time I was a boy, it had become a tradition to carve detailed patterns in the sides of the gourd, to lure in good spirits and drive away evil ones.” The scruffy tojay chuckled at the memories. “It’s so interesting -- what started as a measure of pragmatism became a pseudo-religious belief over time.”  
  
“I wouldn’t say it was pragmatism so much as… frugality?” Serana’s tone started out as uncertain with her word choice, then transitioned into sardonic when she spoke again. “I most remember them for being tightwads with their gold.”  
  
“I personally find that to be more a trait endemic to all the races of Men.” Tolfdir matched her sardonic tone. “Which reminds me -- had they started on the village walls by that point?”  
  
Serana shook her head. “It wasn’t as easy to cross the mountains as it is now -- you needed to wait for the right time of year, the right weather, the right day for the hagravens to be off foraging.” She sounded almost wistful. “My father taught me how to look for those signs while on his campaigns across Skyrim. And on days when it wasn’t right, I would collect alchemical supplies.”  
  
A most interesting perspective. “Was this before the mountain passes were discovered, perhaps?”  
  
“No, the passes weren’t there yet.” Serana shrugged. “My father used his armies and mages to _make_ those passes so his troops could get through. There was a time when he was the king of Haafingar, the Reach, and Hjaalmarch. Back before half the Reach was in High Rock.”  
  
That gave Tolfdir pause, and he racked his brain for dates and historical tidbits. “Why… the only time that could have been was shortly before the planemeld.” He hastened to explain to her: The planemeld had been an attempt by Molag Bal to combine Coldharbour and Nirn, which ended in failure.  
  
She whistled at that. “Sounds like something my father would have been a part of… but I didn’t hear any rumblings about that before I was locked away, so it must have come afterward.”  
  
Tolfdir made even more entries in his notes in reference to this. “I hope you don’t mind, dear lady, but there is enough here already for me to start on a book.” He paused to consider titles. “I would call it an interview with a vampire, but there’s a fiction novel about that already. But!” He held his quill up and offered it to Serana. “I won’t put one scratch toward any book about you without your consent. One word, and I’ll drop the topic forever.”  
  
The paler Nord-turned-Khajiit found her tail going straight up and curling at the tip, despite her telling it to do no such thing. “Oh, I… didn’t think I was that interesting.” She smiled and hid how surprised she was by the consideration with sardonic wit. “You sure you won’t bore your readers to death?”  
  
“My dear girl,” Tolfdir replied as if shocked. “You are one of the most interesting people I’ve met. Including that divine cat that made us like this!” He gestured to his own scruffy catness. “You mustn’t underestimate how fantastic and exciting your life can be compared to, say, a farmer who has no prospects in life but to be a farmer. How exciting it must be, from their perspective, to have seen a pass dug through a mountain!”  
  
Serana adjusted her hair and leaned on the table. “Alright. I could talk about myself for a while.”  
  
\--  
“I’m not really interested in talking about myself.”  
  
The writhing mass of tentacles that comprised the avatar of Hermaeus Mora ‘hrmed’ in a most displeased way.  
  
Yagraz could get why he was displeased. He’d taken the time to craft a mortal vessel, put on a Daedric light-show to suitably wow her, but his sense of timing was off.   
  
Yagraz had just finished a job in Whiterun Hold -- clear out a den of Redguard mercenaries who had been making off with an Imperial treasure. The loons had somehow gotten their mitts on Morihaus’ armor -- Morihaus, the son of Kyne.  
  
She’d shown them the business end of Volendrung, gave them a death worth singing songs about, and been on her way when her way out found itself blocked by Hermaeus Mora’s show.  
  
And rather than be held hostage by a Daedra who didn’t know honor despite the many books on the subject, she Fus Ro Dah’d the ceiling apart to climb out the hard way. Mora hadn’t anticipated her willingness to risk a cave in and was forced to follow behind her as she trekked across the plains.  
  
“Ah, Dragonborn… there are so many things to talk about. I’m sure we can find some topic of mutual interest.” Mora’s voice was cloying, soothing, and _wet_. Unsettling, purposefully so.  
  
“I’m trying to be respectful here,” Yagraz said with clear annoyance while she hauled Volendrung onto her shoulders. “But if you keep pushing, I’ll give you what Alduin gave Dagon. _Capiche?_ ”  
  
The Daedric Princes were some of the most powerful beings in all existence. By some metrics, they were the end-all, be-all. And if even a part of them was on Mundus, they were vulnerable to the thu’um. Alduin had forced Mehrunez Dagon to become the Prince of Change where before he had been a bastion of kindness. Perhaps short-stuff’s sphere of kindness had been Dagon’s before. Having a dragon or Dragonborn minion thus became a great status magnifier for the Princes, as it opened up the possibility of fundamentally altering who their enemies were on a metaphysical level. Yagraz’s threat had teeth.  
  
But so did Mora.  
  
“Oh, I understand, Dragonborn. I just had this notion that there were some questions to which you would like answers. Such as how to repay Meridia for the _excellent_ parenting she gave my dear, _sweet_ nephew.”  
  
Yagraz stopped in her tracks.  
  
“And how to alter your soul, and become a mortal Orc.”  
  
The spiked counterweight of Volendrung dug into the ground as Yagraz moved it, then she turned to look at the wriggling mass of ooze, tentacles, and eyes. “Who has upset you so much that you want me to murder them?”  
  
The octopus eyes narrowed, and Mora made a pleased sound. “You presume to know my motives? My… such hubris.”  
  
Yagraz dared roll her eyes at Mora. She had something he wanted, or else he wouldn’t have tolerated her disrespect thus far. “Mora. It’s just us. No need to be cagey.”  
  
Hermaeus Mora actually laughed. “Oh, sweet girl… that simply isn’t true.”  
  
Volendrung was a mighty warhammer. But when wielded _as_ a warhammer, it was nothing special other than its vitality thief effect. The true strength of the hammer, and it’s cataclysmic destructive power, came from being thrown. That’s why it was covered in spikes at the head -- and why Malacath took it as his artifact. Any who were gifted the weapon had the strength to casually throw it and recreate the namesake for Hammerfell.  
  
Yagraz demonstrated this by promptly throwing Volendrung into Hermaeus Mora’s avatar. He made a delightfully satisfying squeal of pain while he was carried by momentum. He left a crater deeper than Yagraz was tall, and three times as wide, and was pinned underneath the hammer.  
  
The Gardener of Men seemed altogether not affected by the Hammer Falling upon him. As Yagraz approached, she found him muttering to himself. “Subject reacts strongly to diminutive female descriptors, potentially as a result of Malacath’s hyper-masculine standard for males and females.”  
  
“The likes of you,” Yagraz said, disarmingly pleasant, “don’t get to call me ‘girl’. That’s the long and short of it.” She put her hands on Volendrung and hefted it up. “Now who do you want dead, Mora?”  
  
“Correction to previous notation: Subject restricts the use of diminutive female descriptors.” The Prince of Fate oozed through the air and added snapping claws to his writhing mass of illusion generated image mishaps. “But you’re still wrong -- I have little use for Yagraz the warrior. My need is for Yagraz the student of anthropology.”   
\--  
  
Mora wanted some secrets from the Skaal, and he wanted Yagraz to get them. Typical Daedra, couldn’t stand someone having a toy he didn’t also have. She hoped short-stuff’s kids didn’t turn out like that, spit-fire and fluffy were cute as could be. Yagraz couldn’t imagine getting the call from short-stuff that his kids were out of control -- his heart’d be broken long before he got the nerve to call her for help. But slick would be there, she remembered. Slick was like her, didn’t play any games with people he loved. She’d known that from the time short-stuff had been kidnapped.  
  
Short-stuff had it in his head that he’d forced his problems on Yagraz. She blamed his Daedra for that, playing sick games with love like she was Azura. But when Mora came through on his half of the deal, Yagraz would get the opportunity to tell her exactly _how bad_ she’d fucked up. Meridia’s temper was legendary, but Malacath’s vengeance was just as legendary. All she had to do was think of every time short-stuff came to her in school crying about something or other -- let alone all the times she had to watch him go off on his own when her family picked her up -- and she was about ready to lose it.  
  
Yagraz hadn’t realized how _mad_ she was about that until she’d been given an outlet for it. Sheogorath was crazy, he’d do something stupid if she tried for him. Meridia would stand, fight, and take her beating cause she’d deserve it. Yagraz just pictured Lucy or Sofie going through one _drop_ of what short-stuff did, and she was ready to kill something just for moving.  
  
It made the bandits and thugs on the long walk to Windhelm think twice before trying their luck on the Orc woman with a hammer that could demolish a house. The ones that tried their luck anyway became stress relief.  
  
Then, when she finally got to Windhelm, she found it surprisingly happy. Folks acted like the cold cut into them a little less, there was more food available than she’d come to expect of Ysgramor’s City, and the non-Nords seemed happy. Any one of those things would have been odd, but all three? Something funky was afoot.  
  
She went down to the one place she knew she could get the facts without any bullshit: The Argonian Assemblage. The Windhelm docks were cold, windswept, and a bitter place for anyone to work, let alone Argonians. When she’d first started as a Fourth Era companion, doing a job for the Assemblage was one of the first tasks she’d been given.  
  
And given the fact that she always had a place to sleep there if she cared to, when space was so limited, she thought she’d done a damn fine job making Torbjorn Shatter-Shield wet himself in public from threats of violence if he didn’t pay his workers their due.  
  
Naturally, she sought out the brains behind the Argonian labor union in the making: a bronze-scaled woman named Wujeeta and the green and horned Scouts-Many-Marshes. They both seemed elated to see Yagraz.  
  
“Fear-strider,” Scouts greeted her with a handshake firmer than when last Yagraz had seen him. “Good to see you! What brings you to this miserable city?”  
  
Wujeeta offered her an apple from a basket, which Yagraz politely refused. “We can afford to buy fruit from the markets now,” the shorter woman declared with glee. “No longer do we need to spend every septim on medicine to heal us from the cold.”  
  
Yagraz looked around and saw that all the Argonians working Windhelm’s docks seemed demonstrably less miserable. “I noticed that things were happier here, what’s with that?”  
  
“A while ago, a group of mages called the Friends of Llorona passed through and did enchanting work for charity.” Wujeeta gestured to a simple copper ring she wore. “Baubles, clothes, what jewelry we had… they enchanted them with things to help us in our daily lives. Warmth, strength, healing, and more.”  
  
“Our fishing hooks are bewitched to draw the fish’s eye,” Scouts said, and pointed to three young Argonians fishing near the sea. “And our rods are bewitched to make our lines stretch, but not break.”  
  
Yagraz pulled her mouth into a line and nodded appreciatively. “Not bad work for some amateur enchanters. They’ve got lots of imagination, I’ll give them that.” She looked up at the city, where a Stormcloak soldier looked down on her from the wall, then scurried off in fear. The Bear’s boys were starting to act like boys -- afraid, posturing, laughable. “I guess they did that for the Gray Quarter too?”  
  
The Argonians shrugged. “We’re still not allowed inside to see,” Wujeeta responded. Her mood was a bit soured by that. “We pay some Dunmer to buy our fruit for us, and they’re doing so well they only steal some of them.”  
  
“Alright, cool.” Yagraz’s perception of the unnatural cheer around Windhelm shifted from suspicion to vicious glee. Ulfric had to see the minorities in his city being happy, while his efforts crumbled around him. And his misery made Yagraz happy too. “I’m going to take a ship to Solstheim, wanted to check in on y’all before I leave the mainland.”  
  
“Thank you, fear-strider,” Scouts said with a bow. “Aside from Torbjorn slipping into his old habits again, all is well.”  
  
The Companion squinted at him, and demanded an answer.  
  
“Well… he says that we’re doing so much better that he doesn’t need to pay us as much.” Scouts became nervous, as his eye suddenly focused on the house-destroying hammer Yagraz carried with her. “He’s not shorting us as much as he did before, but he’s still -- wait!”  
  
“Sorry Scouts,” Yagraz said over her shoulder as she walked back to the gates into Windhelm. “Torbjorn swore on his god to keep his word, and he didn’t. I’d be breaking my word to my god if I didn’t bring down the hammer on him.”  
  
“He’s just lost a daughter, fear-strider! Please!”  
  
Yagraz stopped and let Scouts, so sweet he and short-stuff would get along like brothers, could catch up and tell her how a murderer had brutally murdered Torbjorn’s daughter recently. Oaths to the gods didn’t leave a lot of wriggle room, but the story convinced her to look for the small amount they did permit. “Alright,” she said like she was putting her neck out for Scouts’ benefit. “I’ll scare him like I did last time. No blood. How’s that?”  
  
“Thank you, fear-strider,” the green Argonian said with his hands clasped and his head bowed. “Torbjorn might be a miser, but he’s still a husband and father to the family he has left.”  
  
“He’d still be those things if his little girl hadn’t died.” She poked him with one finger to remove him from her path. He scooted along on the stone like he stood on ice. “But fine, whatever. This is his last second chance though. It happens again? He’s paste.”  
  
As much as she felt for the guy, he was stealing from his workers, and probably counted on their empathy for his loss to shield him from the repercussions. In the Twenty-First Era, it was one of the most frequent Companions jobs to get hired by striking workers to put the fear of the gods into their tight-wad bosses. So when she went to the Valunstrad and found the house of Clan Shatter-Shield.  
  
Which she promptly threw Volendrung through.  
  
“You knew what would happen if you kept short-changing your workers, bourgeois bitch boy! Come out and face your death like a man!”  
  
After all the nonsense she’d put up with, going back to her bourgeoisie busting days felt good. Though she did miss being accompanied by Zenithar’s militant auditors. Nothing like beating up some bourgeois punk and taking all their money in the same day.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, Zenithar's militant auditors only emerged in the late twentieth era after big banks started to gamble with their client's money. Not even majorly profitable gambling, either. They were going down to casinos and stuff.


	65. Cleanup.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be so nice if people in Skyrim stopped making others clean up their messes, huh?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sheogorath is so sad about tumblr dying he won't come out of his trailer for his chapter, so have this instead.

  
\---  
**Chapter 65:** Cleanup.  
  
The college’s midden was absolutely filthy. Corpses, undead, ice wraiths, and a Daedra locked in a half-completed summoning. Mohamara and Orchendor had made a day of cleaning the basement levels of the college on the premise that it was space the college could use for more classrooms or more lab areas. Of course, because academia was full of demanding old people, the college’s chief enchanter hounded them during the whole process. Sergius Turianus, an elderly Imperial -- one of the few actual teachers at the college, but often overwhelmed with enchanting jobs for clients.  
  
The technicolor tojay couldn’t blame him for desperately wanting to know how to their enchanting worked -- but their answer remained the same. “We have agreed to share our methods with the college pending the completion of an arrangement with the Arch-Mage.  
  
“There must be some arrangement that could be made,” the balding human implored the Khajiit while they telekinetically repaired damaged stonework. “Perhaps you could tell me where you learned your craft?”  
  
“The Jorrvaskr School of Clever Works,” both tojay said at once. They had their backs to Sergius, so they didn’t see his look at absolute disbelief. “It’s not accepting public applications at present.”  
  
“Rather than demand we teach you before we’re ready…” Started Mohamara as he lifted a puddle of oil into the air.  
  
“Use it as a way to sharpen your mind by examining our enchanted works.” Orchendor finished, burning the oil away with a minor fire spell.  
  
“You’re really smart. But your observation skills have withered since you’re used to being the one people watch.” The pink tojay patted the Imperial’s hand as they walked away.  
  
“Now you’ll want to get upstairs, we’re going to start major reconstruction and you’ll be in the way.”  
  
Sergius didn’t realize how true the tojay’s words were until he felt the college tear free of its foundations and float in the air just on the cusp of shattering the bridge. He imagined it must have been terribly frightening for those not in the know as to what was happening, so he immediately went to work to spread the word: There was no cause for alarm, the school’s foundations were being repaired. He didn’t quite know how he knew that was what the tojay were doing.  
  
With the two of them fully charged with divine power, it was much easier to distribute the load between them and rearrange the stones of the college’s foundations. For brief moments, Mohamara or Orchendor would hold it aloft on their own while the other worked Deco style enchanting into the roots of the college. Once that was done, it was a simple matter of laying the college’s superstructure down, and jury-rigging a healing spell into a ‘repair’ spell to ‘heal’ the college.  
  
“You know, they won’t remember that the ‘friends of Llorona’ gave them back their city, or fixed their foundations a hundred years from now,” Orchendor said offhand while they casually pulled on the bonds between the bound Dremora in the lowest basements of the midden. Their goal was to find the strings with which he bound five mortal souls and sever them.  
  
“We don’t do this because it will get us praise,” Mohamara replied and bapped his green self with his tail. “We do it because it’s the right thing to do.”  
  
“A little praise would be nice, though.” Once the souls were freed, they disenchanted the hand-like object that was needed to resummon the Dremora to Mundus. If he wanted to come back, he’d need to entice a summoner, like everyone else.  
  
“They’re humans, they reserve their praise for humans by and large. That’s just how they are.” Mohamara’s pinkness increased as his expression became lovey-dovey. “Well, Marcurio’s not….”  
  
“Don’t go getting lost in how much you like our husband.” Orchendor whapped Mohamara in the back of the head to knock him out of it. “We still got that last room to fix up.”  
  
“You mean the one that smells ominously of cherries, oranges, and grapes?”  
  
“The same!”  
  
\--  
  
[...](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4NdETLNglhc)  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Redbullhassomewings:  
REGULARLY SCHEDULED CHECK-IN, ANY UPDATES ON YOUR PROJECTS?  
  
Redbullhassomewings TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
PROJECTS ONE THROUGH FORTY-THREE REMAIN DEADLOCKED DUE TO INSUFFICIENT CREATIA. PROJECT FORTY-FOUR IS STYMIED BY RESIDUAL THU’UM EFFECTS.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Redbullhassomewings:  
I HAVE RELEVANT UPDATES THAT COINCIDE WITH PERSONAL NEWS.  
  
Redbullhassomewings TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
I DON’T KNOW IF I SHOULD BE HAPPY OR SCARED.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Redbullhassomewings:  
SHUSH. I HAVE MADE UP WITH YOUR OTHER MOTHER, BLINDEDBYTHELIGHT, AND SHE SAYS HER SIDE OF THE FAMILY IS WORKING ON A PLAN TO FIX THE CREATIA SHORTAGE.  
  
Redbullhassomewings TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
THAT’S GREAT, I’M HAPPY FOR YOU! I DON’T HAVE BROADCAST STRENGTH TO REACH HER, BUT TELL HER I SAID HI.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Redbullhassomewings:  
I WILL. SHE’S HAD SOME KIDS SINCE OUR TIME OFF STARTED. YOU HAVE THREE-QUARTERS OF A MILLION IN SISTERS.  
  
Redbullhassomewings TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
WHAT. THAT’S TOO MANY. THAT’S EXCESSIVE.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Redbullhasssomewings:  
AND ONE BABY BROTHER. HIS BIRTHDAY IS COMING UP ACTUALLY.  
  
Redbullhassomewings TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
WAIT, BIRTHDAY?  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Redbullhassomewings:  
HE’S STILL BOUND BY LINEAR TIME, HIS PLANE ISN’T DONE YET. AS FAR AS I KNOW, HE’S STILL ON MUNDUS.  
  
Redbullhassomewings TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
WOW, YOU WEREN’T KIDDING WITH ‘BABY’ BROTHER, THEN. I’LL PAY HIM A VISIT.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Redbullhassomewings:  
SAY HELLO TO YOUR NIECE AND NEPHEW WHILE YOU’RE THERE.  
  
Redbullhassomewings TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
AAAAAH, I’M AN UNCLE. THIS IS BECOMING THE BEST STRETCH OF EXISTENCE EVER!  
  
\--  
  
In a couple hundred years, Solstheim would begin being way more important in the northern world as a staging ground for the Atmoran colonization effort. Yagraz didn’t know her history well enough to remember if House Redoran would put the short-lived surge in wealth to good use, but she hoped they did. Morrowind was going to get the shit kicked out of it for the next five Eras, they needed every ray of sunshine they could find.  
  
Especially considering the amount of shit going on in a small, dying, town. There was plenty of work for an adventurer, and some of it was worthy of a Companion’s time. But more of it was worth a thief’s.  
  
So she called up slick to tell him about what was going on up north.  
  
“There’s lots of jobs that just involve finding lost things, or finding folks who’ve gone missing, dealing with a magical threat that can’t be solved by the creative application of violence…”  
  
Yagraz likely looked bizarre, holding a rectangular metal device to her war while she sat in the local tavern. Like most Morrowind architecture, it was underground and made to look like an emperor crab carapace from the outside. But she didn’t care overmuch what drunk depressed Dunmer thought of her.  
  
“Sounds like a good opportunity for some profit,” slick told her from his end of the call. The Imperial really figured out the intuitive GUI for his phone and found its functions quickly. “I’m currently in Windhelm on business, but I could swing up to Solstheim to set up some enterprise, or buy some of those special pearls for a wedding present.”  
  
Yagraz rolled her eyes. “How about I buy as many of those pearls as the locals are willing to sell, huh? Just make sure it’s something nice for short-stuff to wear.” Fancy dresses and jewelry weren’t her thing, so she’d made a habit of passing off the stuff she got to short-stuff growing up -- back when he could still grow into the dresses anyway. In hindsight, her sisters might have taken him wearing her clothes as a cue to treat him like a doll and sparked this whole ‘no dresses’ thing in him. Huh. “So what’re you up to in Windhelm, anyway?”  
  
“Oh, you know.” There was a distant explosion, sounds of terrified screaming, and some guy shouting ‘my leg!’ on slick’s end of the call. “Stuff.”  
  
“Stuff, huh? The kind of stuff that’s going to get me to put my boot up your ass, slick?” She sipped the sujama the tavern was supposedly famous for. Good stuff, had a kick, put her in the mood to go and fight a dragon.  
  
“Don’t know just yet.” Another explosion rang out, closer this time. “I’m kinda in the middle of dueling Ulfric Stormcloak to the death.”  
  
_”Fus… Ro Dah!”_  
  
Yagraz choked a bit on her drink and had to spend ten seconds coughing. “You’re doing _what_?!”  
  
“Well I got tired of waiting for the Dark Brotherhood to kill him, and I’m a Thane of the Rift. Legally, I can challenge any Jarl to a duel for their throne.”  
  
Yagraz set her drink down and rested her face in her hands. “And you’re deciding to do this now… why?”  
  
“Cause I want to get married sooner, rather than later. Don’t think I’ll hold onto the throne of Eastmarch for very long -- it wouldn’t do much for the local Nord’s pride to be ruled by an Imperial mage, you see.”  
  
_”Cease your madman’s prattle and fight, Imperial dog!”_  
  
“Would you hold on a minute, Yagraz, my opponent would like some of my direct, undivided attention. Here, hold this.”  
  
Yagraz heard a confused Nord ask some questions, then the familiar crackle of lightning followed shortly thereafter by a clap of thunder. A literal clap of thunder, she had to hold the micro-slate away from her ear, it was so loud -- like lightning had struck dangerously close to the other end. Then came so much wailing and audible despair that Yagraz had to turn the volume down on her phone -- it was being heard by other patrons in the bar.  
  
“Thank you for not crying all over this,” slick’s voice said to the Nord while he took back his micro-slate. “As it turns out, I’m _talented_ at murdering people. And now I’ve got some political bull to deal with. I’ll send someone up to deal with the more immediate issues, and be up there myself as soon as I have someone in place to abdicate my new throne too.”  
  
“Alright,” Yagraz said, nodding even though slick wasn’t there to see it. “I’ll be staying in Raven Rock to keep the situation under control.” After all, it was just some animated ash, how hard could it be to defend against?  
  
\--  
  
So as it turned out, when there’s mind control happening alongside the ash zombie invasion, it was pretty frickin hard to defend a town. The town guard would go to sleep, then wake up and walk out of town to work on a shrine near the shore while they chanted a mantra of some kind. The architecture that was on display for the shrine didn’t speak of Morrowind or Nordic designs -- but the organic curves of Daedric influence. The shrines were made of stone frameworks centered around pillars tied to the Skaal monotheistic religion -- the one closest to Raven Rock was the Earth Stone located along the southwestern coasts.  
  
Whatever Daedra was attempting to co-opt the pillars, she wasn’t going to tolerate it. So she used Volendrun to knock down the structures and leave them as ruined rubble on the black sand beaches.  
  
She’d hoped that destroying the progress would get whatever Daedra was responsible to manifest in outrage so she could bash its brains in. But no such luck, the next night the ensnared townsfolk just started up again. As the populace became more exhausted, she was made to defend the town herself more and more. At least, until she was sent reinforcements.  
  
Yagraz was holding the, in hindsight, excessively large gates against a swarm of the ash zombies with their gaping mouths and swords of cooled lava. Volendrung’s stamina draining effect was all that kept her standing, she had been fighting since sunrise. However a distinct flapping of wings and a distant roar.  
  
Suddenly, a wall of ice grew up following a line of wind and frost that move from the sea to the mountains behind Raven Rock. The ice wall was just as high as the town’s walls but thinner and blindingly white. Yagraz looked up just in time to see a white scaly tail vanish over the wall before more zombies drew her attention. A dragon, perhaps Kipgolsik, had come to help -- she had been too far away to hear his Thu’um and identify him.  
  
But a second dragon’s appearance made her doubt her assumption. He was bigger than Kipgolsik, and angry red in coloration. Physically he resembled a frost dragon -- but his spikes weren’t as sharp, they curved backward at the tips. Yagraz got a good look at him while he landed on the wall of ice to breathe a second wall into existence on the other side.  
  
Soon enough, all the ash zombies were returned to dust, and Yagraz ascended the inner pathways of the town’s curtain wall to stand atop it. She watched as the red and white dragons made passes in front of their ice walls to expand the defenses. When they finally seemed satisfied enough to land on the wall and have tinvaak with her, they had created a glacier to act as a natural barrier from the invading ash undead.  
  
The frost dragon was indeed Kipgolsik, she identified him as she approached the draconic pair. “Well met, sister,” spoke the white dragon. “Marcurio thuri sent us to assist you as best we could.”  
  
“Ask for thieves, get dragons,” Yagraz muttered to herself, but then spoke louder. “Not going to turn down your help, brothers.” She looked at the red dragon who regarded her, inscrutable. It pissed her off. “I have not met my brother here, shall we observe the greeting.”  
  
“As the elder,” the red dragon spoke and reared back. “I Speak first. **Yol… Toor Shul!** ” The elder dragon opened his mouth and a river of fire spilled out onto Yagraz. Subtle enchantments in her armor and the craftsmanship itself prevented her from dying instantly to the fiery deluge.  
  
When Yagraz made it through the elder’s greeting, she was black with soot, and the wall around her was similarly blackened. A good, reasonably hot, fire. “Alright. My turn. **Yol. Toor. Shul!** ” Her fire was white-hot in its intensity, but the dragon weathered her reply and emerged similarly sooty to Yagraz.  
  
“Are you two done measuring your thu’umme?” Kipgolsik cut in, utterly done with the fire-breathing tradition his kind rejected. “Introduce yourself, brother.”  
  
The red dragon ‘hmphed’ disdainfully and glared down at Yagraz. “I am Odahviing, lieutenant to Alduin thuri when he was fit to command the dov.” He turned his serpentine neck to glare at Kipgolsik. “Now we are the lackeys of a joor….”  
  
“Marcurio thuri is more fit to command than Alduin was, Marcurio thuri did not flee the world rather than face a stronger foe.” The frost dragon actually had the nerve to chuckle in front of his former superior. “Are you still upset that he dragged you from the sky like a cat snatching a bird?”  
  
Odahviing snarled and acted like he was about to snap his jaws at his younger brother.  
  
Yagraz put a stop to it. “Alright, brothers, we have work to do.” She glared at each in turn. “The southern half of the island is warm, too warm for that glacier to keep for long. One of you will need to keep refreezing it every so often, and deal with ash zombies that climb up over it. The other will need to keep the townsfolk from finishing whatever they’re doing with that pillar south-west of here.” She paused to turn and point. “But don’t try to knock down the central pillar. It’s magic.”  
  
“We are dov,” Odahviing growled, “not servants to be ordered about.”  
  
“You want me to call your thuri up and he can give you the orders?” When Odahviing didn’t back down, Yagraz took out her micro-slate, set it to the speaker, and dialed slick’s number.  
  
“Talk to me,” the new Jarl of Eastmarch said, and caused both dragons to flinch. Without further words, they took to the sky and flew in two separate directions.  
  
After their intense flapping faded, Yagraz spoke. “Sorry, had to wait for them to leave. Thank you for sending a couple dragons to help out, slick. They got my fat out of the fire.” She wasn’t hesitant to give praise when someone did a good job -- and sending dragons to help out was a _damn_ good job. Dragons needed for no biological functions -- they could eat, sleep, and breathe if they cared to, but they didn’t always care to. “You’re the dragon boss now?”  
  
“Among other things.”  
  
\--  
  
“You’re the dragon boss now?”  
  
Marcurio rubbed his temple with his free hand. “Among other things,” he said, putting cheer into the words he didn’t feel. Before him on his desk was a small mountain of paperwork. Threats from the Jarls of Winterhold and the Pale, and official denouncements from the same. Several letters of congratulations from his family and, surprisingly, Jarl Laila of the Rift about his ascension to the throne of Eastmarch. The most worrying one was the letter with a black hand saying ‘We Know’.  
  
He didn’t understand how the news had traveled so fast -- it was like someone had told them all at once that he’d killed Ulfric in a duel. Less than a week as the Jarl and everyone seemed to know the news he was going to plan a grand announcement for. He hadn’t even called to tell Mohamara about it, yet!  
  
Ulfric’s funeral wasn’t even scheduled for another week. He’d decided to let the local Nords prepare a crypt for the man. No matter what was done, the former Jarl would have been a martyr -- he at least wanted to show a man who inspired his people to great and sometimes terrible action some respect in death.  
  
Even if he’d shown the man absolutely no respect when he murdered Ulfric.  
  
As disparate as the fight between Ulfric and Elisif’s late husband Torygg had been, the disparity between Marcurio and Ulfric was greater. He’d outright toyed with the Jarl for the majority of the fight until he opted to fight back. His one offensive spell had killed Ulfric like the war veteran was a pathetic novice.  
  
“Ooh, that’s the fake voice. First time I’ve heard it from you.”  
  
Marcurio pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to figure out how Yagraz had seen through him so easily.  
  
“Short-stuff used it a lot during the bad years, especially when some punk at school was messing with him.”  
  
Well, that explained it. Marcurio slouched in the barely padded chair Ulfric had used for his desk. One of many things that needed to be fixed as a present to the actual Jarl once he abdicated. “I’m just… I miss being able to just steal things and manage my businesses, you know? And now I’m an interim Jarl, ending civil wars because the bodies who should be doing so are utterly incompetent, and trying to clean up messes made by stupid dead men.”  
  
“I know how that feels. It’s like… ‘hey, I can’t help you being a huge cockwaffle, would you stop? Would you kindly clean up after yourself? Alright, I’ll do it for you.’ And then they have the gall to be upset.”  
  
The thief-mage-Jarl chuckled and covered his eyes with his free hand. “Maybe we can talk to Mohamara into making a minor god that clips onto people being dickheads and says something like that. ‘Hey, I see you trying to be a fully functional, not-xenophobic, well-adjusted adult and failing miserably. Would you like some help with that?’ It’d be great for the laughs.”  
  
There was a moment of profound quiet. “I think that’s actually short-stuff’s job, come to think of it.”  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't hate Ulfric, I really don't. But there's enough cooks in this kitchen, so some problems need sorting out.


	66. Execute Orders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shouldn't... it's not the Mello Yello way...

  
\---  
  
**Chapter 66:** Execute Orders.  
  
Mohamara and Orchendor saw the bonds that led into the room, and saw that it was a private place, so they knocked. Immediately from the other side of the door rasped a raspy voice, like a dying gasp for every word. “I am with another client at the moment. I will be with you shortly.”  
  
“I’ve heard that voice before,” Mohamara said to Orchendor as they paced outside the door. “Not as gaspy, but definitely that voice.”  
  
“The gaspiness levels of a voice completely change how it sounds, though,” Orchendor fired back. They paced in opposite directions, which made it look like they were patrolling in front of the door.  
  
Mohamara flicked his ear as some residual ice melt landed upon it. Their repairs had improved the heat circulation throughout the college, and the Deco enchantments only made that more effective. “I can pick up familiar sympathetic bonds in the voice -- faint sort of stuff, but it connects to my anger naturally.”  
  
The two posited what they could about the voice until the door opened. The hoodless Thalmor, Ancano sneered down at them as he closed the door behind him. “I trust _you_ were the cause of that awful racket earlier?” He barely waited for them to acknowledge his question before he spoke again. “You will kindly refrain from such displays -- levitation magic is banned in the Empire and Alinor, I have no compunctions about reporting your illegal practices to the relevant authorities. This warning is a mere courtesy. Good _day_ to you.” The elf slunk away with his head back, his lip curled, and his eyes closed in the perfect mask of disgusted superiority.  
  
He promptly walked into the stairs, as they had changed position due to the reconstruction, and had to flail about to maintain his balance.  
  
The technicolor tojay watched the high elf leave, judging him silently, then knocked on the door once again.  
  
“If you wish to waste your time, you may enter,” said the gasping voice again, and the door opened.  
  
The chamber was barren but for a well at the center, which contained a considerable sum of liquid magicka that spiraled on its own. The smell of cherries, oranges, and grapes hung in the air, sickly sweet. Cloying, even. From the liquid magicka emerged a luminous cloud of pale blue light. It swirled around in the air like snow in a blizzard and radiated sympathetic bonds from every particle.  
  
“Why have you come?”  
  
Mohamara spoke up as he squinted into the mass of bonds, to try and pick out the ones rooted in identity. “Have we met before? Your voice is familiar.”  
  
The cloud swirled on and on, inscrutable and without expression. “We have. The memories are dim, and far away. We are connected, you and I.”  
  
Orchendor was detached enough to look at the scene from an outsider’s perspective. He watched the bonds between the pink tojay and the luminous blue mass with interest. The bonds just seemed to click together.  
  
“You think this meeting is a waste of time -- why?”  
  
“So rare is it,” the gasping, seemingly dying, voice mused, “for anyone to ask me questions about myself anymore. Savos would rather I be forgotten entirely. But you waste time with me, for there is work to do. Forces align to drive you forward at breakneck pace, Azura, Meridia, Sheogorath, and Hermaeus Mora -- those will be the prime malcontents.”  
  
Mohamara tilted his head as he latched onto one of the roots of the cloud’s identity. Memories of a swishing tail, flicking ears, clawed fingers and toes -- a Khajiit. “But you’ve warned me. That’s not a waste of time.”  
  
“Perhaps. But Kindness would drive you to attempt and help me out of this sorry condition. This is folly -- you would weaken yourself and put the world at risk. All for a failed attempt.”  
  
Within the cloud, Orchendor began to discern a curled up shape as Mohamara pieced together an identity for the strange magical being.  
  
“How will I fail, then?”  
  
The cloud shifted suddenly as if the wind which blew its particles had gone from spiraling to one fixed direction. “I am in this state because like all of our race, my mind is too big for a body to contain. You cannot resolve this issue, no matter how you try.” Once more the particles began to spiral about, like the inside of a tornado.  
  
“If that’s the case, why not ask me to disenchant you?”  
  
The swirling stopped, all at once all the particles that had been flitting around froze in mid-air. “What?”  
  
The pink tojay shrugged. “I can dispel the magic keeping you like this, and you can pass on. You’re in pain like this.”  
  
Orchendor watched as yet more bonds began to form, some within the magical cloud while most were between the cloud and Mohamara. So far nothing meant as an attack had linked, just a series of requests for information.  
  
“As I am, I can help people.” The particles began to move slowly again. “It is why I took this risk -- why I attempted to reach heaven through violence. But I failed. I did not become a god, but as I am -- people who would die need not. Secrets that would remain lost can be rediscovered.”  
  
“Well, then I can help you reach heaven.” Mohamara ushered Orchendor over to his side, and the two of them began to work the powers of a god. “Apotheosis is a lot easier when you have someone who can reach down to offer a hand.”  
  
\--  
  
Solstheim wasn’t necessarily a pretty place to be, polluted with an incredible amount of ash from Vvardenfell’s continuous eruption. But the Dunmer had made a home of the island’s southern half, at least until they were killed by the ash spawn. The smallfolk, who didn’t have the benefit of walls or mushroom towers to guard them had been slaughtered by the bizarre undead. With the town safe, for the time being, Yagraz trekked out into the island in pursuit of the source of these problems.  
  
The ash spawn was her first priority -- a clear and sustained danger. This was evidenced by the fact that Yagraz’s red shoes enchantment had been active the entire time since she arrived in Solstheim. She could zoom across the horizon without needing to toss someone in the air, rush to catch them, then toss them again as she’d always done to cheat the system.  
  
So after a speedy search, she found something most unnerving. An Imperial general giving a speech to the ash spawn like they were his troops. She knew him to be a general by the ornate armor he wore -- the gold plating had been scoured revealing the strong Imperial steel beneath, and the ash had stained the leather. Out of all the ash spawn, only the general seemed to retain his human appearance.  
  
He had a strange pulsing rock stuck in his chest that stuck out through his armor, like it had been jammed in there.  
  
She listened to him from atop the towers of a ruined Imperial fort and felt pity. The poor man didn’t know he was dead. Yagraz decided to remind him. She started by jumping down into the soft ash on the inside of the fort’s ruined curtain walls.  
  
“Who goes there?” Demanded the long-dead human, and in turn, his minions turned to face Yagraz.  
  
The chaff needed to be cleared out, so Yagraz decided on a Shout. “ **Fus… Ro Dah!** ” With the combination of words, all sound left the area. A shockwave of legendary strength pulsed out before Yagraz and pulverized the ash spawn. This left a clear path to the general, who seemed perplexed by her power. The Companion dashed forward, propelled by the red shoes, gripped the pulsing stone in one hand, and yanked it free.  
  
Before her eyes, she watched the human’s form break down into ash as he fell without the obvious revival artifact inside him. What lay on the ground a minute later was a withered husk in the armor of an Imperial general.  
  
“Were you alive,” she told the corpse, “I would have given you a good death.” Yagraz held the strange pulsing rock up to better catch the light through the ash clouds. A volcanic rock, it was hot like it had just come from a forge or exposed to flame. The flame resistant enchantments in her armor kept Yagraz safe, so she stowed the rock and left the fort. “Gonna have to show this to slick and short-stuff, figure out what the hell it is.”  
  
Without their leader, the ash undead were disorganized and easily routed. But Yagraz wasn’t so foolish as to think that ended their threat: For who had raised the general from the dead in the first place? Short-stuff would love to hunt down a necromancer with her -- perhaps she could make a wedding present out of it.  
  
Yagraz pictured how the hunt would look at the end. Her and short-stuff posing on either side of a necromancer’s corpse strung up like a prize fish while slick took the photo. Hmm, maybe short-stuff’s double could do it if slick didn’t want to participate in some pest control. Necromancers were pretty much the only thing she and short-stuff could bond through murder with.  
  
Meridians were weird like that.  
  
Speaking of weird, after she’d deal with the undead general, Yagraz made her way inland. There she found a Nordic ruin in the process of being built over by the same Daedric architecture that had surrounded the Earth Stone. Dunmer bandits in patchwork armors, Reavers, and Nordic folk in heavily padded armor, Skaal tribespeople, worked the stone while reciting the chant that the people of Raven Rock had.  
  
Except there was one woman who was free among them.  
  
A blonde Skaal woman, dressed in armor of quicksilver and bear furs, with an ax of bewitched ice -- stalhrim -- stood near the innermost ring of pillars where the All-Maker stone rested.  
  
“Don’t bother,” Yagraz shouted down to her as the Orc approached. “They’re under some sort of Daedric hypnosis, words won’t work on them.”  
  
The Skaal woman scowled at Yagraz but didn’t rebuff the Orc’s offered wisdom. She looked at one of the nearby Skaal, pleading, but sighed and gave up. “I don’t know what else to do.” It was easy to hear the Skaal accent and assume it was the ancestor of the Whiterun accent. The heavy accent of the Skaal was once known simply as the ‘Nord accent’, that mutated or was lost in response to other races and cultures. The Whiterun accent was just the closest relative to the Nord accent.  
  
Yagraz clapped the Skaal on the shoulder and shook her a bit. “It’ll be alright, just a simple job of find the Daedra, stab it in the taint, and they should all go back to normal.” The Orc sniffed a couple times and recoiled. “They’ll be in need of a bath, but overall, back to normal.”  
  
The Skaal woman blinked, once, twice, thrice. Then she nodded, hesitantly. “Well… I’m not sure it’s a Daedra, it could be the ancient--”  
  
“Miraak? First Dragonborn? Relative to us now, he was an asshole, but relative to the dragons he was actually pretty mellow? Tried to take over Solstheim?” Yagraz rapid-fired the questions and counted them off on her fingers.  
  
Her blonde associate was shocked. “Yes! You know so much about him, how?”  
  
“I studied the history of war at school,” Yagraz said, truthfully. “There was always the suspicion that he’d had Daedric support, but no confirmed proof. Guess we have it now. Still: The solution of ‘stab those responsible in the taint’ should resolve the problem.”  
  
The Skaal woman, a smidge confused, nodded, and offered her hand to shake. “I am Frea of the Skaal. And if we’re to do as you suggest, I call first dibs.”  
  
Yagraz laughed, as stone began to slide against stone while the floor parted to reveal a walkway. “I’m Yagraz, of the Companions. We’ll have fun together, you and I.” The Orc hefted Volendrung and walked down the revealed path to meet some of Miraak’s strange cultists on their way up. “Howdy, boys! How’s your health plan?”  
  
\--  
  
“What.”  
  
That had been General Tullius’ only words for four minutes. He’d been at an event hosted by the Jarl of Solitude when several priority intelligence missives and a personal letter from the Emperor showed up. A mail carrier had just arrived, it seemed. Rikke had escorted the general to a disused room in the Blue Palace to look them over. As always these days, he had been drinking at the worst time and nearly choked to death.  
  
Again.  
  
When Rikke had beaten his back enough that he could breathe normally, all he said was ‘what’. Rikke then looked at the reports herself and found she couldn’t blame him.  
  
Ulfric Stormcloak was dead, killed in a duel with Tullius’ son. That son then used his position as the Jarl of Eastmarch to disband the alliance that had been made between the four rebelling Holds, with both Eastmarch and the Rift accepting the Empire’s authority. Winterhold and the Pale still held out as rebels, but for how long could they do so? Without the Rift’s food, they didn’t have the supplies to mount a standing army on their own. Winterhold was a joke of a hold, and Dawnstar didn’t even have stone buildings to hide in.  
  
Effectively, the rebellion was over.  
  
The personal letter, from the Emperor himself, she hesitated to look over. But if the war was to be over soon, she would be in command of Skyrim’s legions, she had to get used to reading Imperial missives.  
  
‘My Old Friend,  
  
It has come to my attention that a plot against my life is in the works. I know not if the Dominion, some disenfranchised noble or politician from the Empire, or other parties are responsible. But the Black Sacrament has been performed, allegedly. There is no escape from the Dark Brotherhood, Seneca -- and I’m not so desperate to keep living that I would try. That makes the issue of succession of prime importance. We cannot afford another war like what transpired after the Septims died out.  
  
The Vicis were never more than a placeholder, something to keep the Elder Council appeased after I declared my intent not to marry or sire more children. I had hoped that they would rise to the occasion and prove they had the same blood in their veins as their cousin, my wife, did. But that has not panned out.  
  
I remember that I offered the position to you, and I respect your refusal. You’ve done enough to benefit the Empire that I cannot in good conscience force this position upon you. But your family is, in my reckoning, the only one equal to mine in public support, respect, and dignity for lack of a better term. As Emperor, I am obligated to do what is best for the Empire and her people.  
  
I’ve sent word to my other Generals and arranged it so that the news would be announced to the Elder Council and the public either at your son’s wedding (I hope to see you there!) or the rebellion’s conclusion. Whichever comes first.  
  
To put it plainly, your son will succeed me as Emperor on my assassination. My mind is made up on this -- don’t try to convince me otherwise. That’s an order.  
  
Please forgive me.  
  
With love, Titus Mede II, Emperor of Cyrodiil, High Rock, and Skyrim.’  
  
With shaking hands, Rikke poured the general another glass of wine and one for herself. One of the general’s lines seemed most apt for the situation: “I’m not drunk enough to deal with this.”  
  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dew it!


	67. Keikaku

  
\---  
 **Chapter 67:** Keikaku.  
  
It had all gone according to plan. Despite her daughter’s efforts to defy her script, Azura’s plan proceeded without a hitch. At long last, she’d get her friend back.  
  
She hung around the liminal barrier between the outer realms and the Mundus and watched her grandson follow his nature as the god of Kindness. He spoke the lines she’d written for him as had her dear friend. Then came the part where she had to retreat and wait for her cue. Her grandson’s incomplete realm dipped low, close to the barrier and put out towing lines into Mundus. Through the mortal’s approximation of godly power, he anchored his towing lines to the entity which called itself the Augur of Dunlain. While she was distant, she sent a minion of hers across the barrier to retrieve her friend’s wandering body.  
  
Her grandson’s realm resembled a ship of unearthly beauty and grandeur. Within its hold was the infinite expanse of Llesw’er. The inside was completed, but the hull was incomplete -- the astral equivalent of the upper decks and smokestacks were almost finished but not quite. Once she had the physical body of her only friend, Azura returned to watch her grandson attempt to raise the Augur to heaven.  
  
As expected, he couldn’t pull it off. The ship that was his realm developed deep fissures as the engines stirred creatia in a bid to lift the failed god up to heaven. This was the time when Azura had to put herself at risk -- as her friend had risked himself.  
  
Azura, the Mother Soul, queen of Moonshadow, stepped through the hole her daughter had carved between Aetherius and Oblivion on her banishment. Her Oblivion-made form boiled and smoked from the raw cosmological difference in Aetherius, but the pain mattered little to her.  
  
From her grandson’s perspective, he had been struggling to accomplish his goal and risked losing himself for the effort. The Augur had been trying to convince him to just let go and give up -- but Kindness wouldn’t let him, even if Mohamara had wished to. That was the downside of spheres, they changed their possessors once claimed.  
  
As he was on the cusp of fracturing in half from the strain, he found sudden help arrived. Azura’s manifestation in Aetherius took the shape of an enormous rose on the end of a vine through Magnus and into Oblivion. She wrapped her thorny extension of existence around his towing lines and began to heave alongside him. Minor Aetherial natives joined in the effort, and to Azura’s legitimate surprise, two of the Great Names joined the apotheosis of the Augur: Mara, and Kyne. Dibella was distant, but on her way -- she would arrive in time for the aftermath, but not the effort itself.  
  
At last, the protean form of a newly ascended god was dragged through Akatosh’s barrier. Ragged, bleeding, mewling like an injured kitten. Her friend was in pain and Azura’s love bade her resolve the issue. The thorny vine of her existence formed a cage around the new god, with the rose pointed inward for his eyes alone. Azura wept for him, and her tears washed away the damage Akatosh’s barrier had inflicted as if it had been dirt. When her dear friend was no longer suffering, she took a strand of his thought and connected it to his mortal body. Thus, he could pass through the barrier without suffering once more.  
  
Then, as her grandson’s realm limped away, she drew herself and her friend back into Oblivion -- where the waters would nourish them both. Her grandson would be seen to by those that had come to assist, she told herself, she didn’t need to be there to help him. Her friend needed her more. Her Nerevarine needed her more.  
  
\--  
  
“That hurt… so bad,” Mohamara grunted as he limped out of the -- now scentless -- chamber. The bleeding had stopped, his arm wasn’t broken anymore, and his hand was reattached -- that had been an unpleasant thing to happen again. Orchendor had faced the worst of it, nearly torn in half from the strain, but thanks to some emergency healing from sympathetic bonds that identified as ‘Aunt’, ‘Mother’, and ‘Brother’, he wasn’t at risk of dying. Anymore.  
  
With a heavy sigh, and his green half floating behind him because the green tojay’s legs didn’t work yet, Mohamara took out his slate and began a convention call with Yagraz and Marcurio. They both picked up within a second of each other. He dimly noted, that by the calendar, his ascension efforts had taken days. No wonder he was hungry.  
  
“Hey, short-stuff, I’m a bit busy at the moment but I was going to call you anyway,” Yagraz said from her side of the call. The familiar sound of metal impacting a Draugr was all he needed to hear to know what she was doing. “I’m in this Nordic ruin that looks like it’s being taken over by Daedric cultists, can you identify the Daedra for me?”  
  
“Afternoon, love,” Marcurio commented. “I was meaning to….” He was distracted by a sudden ‘Yol Toor Shul!’ from Yagraz. “I was meaning to call you to tell you some good news!”  
  
“Well I have bad news for both of you,” Mohamara said in reply. He took a deep breath and steeled himself for the chastisement he deserved. “I kinda almost killed myself helping someone out of a really bad situation.”  
  
There was a moment of silence before Mohamara was under siege from two sources of worried rage. Mohamara weathered the storm for a good five minutes to let them vent their anger born of worry before he started explaining. The explanation didn’t do much to assuage their fears.  
  
“Dear heart, love, light of _my life_ , you are going to put me in an _early grave_ if you can’t look after yourself,” Marcurio said. His voice was muffled like he’d spoken around a pillow in his face. “You could have called, we could have put together a plan, or contacted other members of your family….”  
  
Mohamara began to wilt under the criticism. He deserved it, he knew, but knowing didn’t make him feel any better about it.  
  
“But you didn’t get permanently hurt. That’s the important bit. I’m thankful you aren’t permanently disabled from this. Could you _kindly_ refrain from almost killing yourself to help other people again?”  
  
A sudden metaphysical effect manifest upon Mohamara, even Orchendor could feel it. Like when Sheogorath had demanded he become a bard. It felt like a heavy iron chain wrapped around Mohamara’s neck. When the pink tojay looked back at his greener self, the other tojay nodded -- he’d felt it too. He also noticed the Elder scroll appeared to be moving on its own as if it were hanging from something.  
  
“Um,” the little god started. “Yes, I can do that, but--”  
  
“No buts, short-stuff!” Yagraz cut in as she put a violent end to something on her end of the call. “Wait -- that sounded less like an objection but and more like ‘something’s fucky’ but.”  
  
“I agree,” Marcurio said. “Dear heart, is something the matter?”  
  
“Well, it feels like there’s something wrapping around my neck that I can’t-- **hrk!** ”  
  
The elder scroll was suddenly yanked when they exited to the open-air courtyard and both the tojay connected to it followed afterward. Mohamara’s slate clattered to the floor, the Telvanni design kept it from cracking, for all the good that did Mohamara or Orchendor.  
  
“Well well well, Mr. Ahramani.” Another familiar voice greeted Mohamara as he hung from the air. “And… Mr. Ahramani’s twin, I presume.” Before either half of the god could react a pair of calipers were applied to their necks and they went limp.  
  
Into Mohamara’s field of vision stepped Elenwen, her arms behind her back in a display of casual power. In the background, Mohamara could see many hooded Thalmor and their golden-armored escorts. The apprentices that Mohamara had escorted seemed uncomfortable to have so many Thalmor, but they weren’t being abused the way Mohamara and Orchendor were.  
  
“Short-stuff, what’s going on?!”  
  
“Elenwen, if you stop whatever it is you’re doing right _now_ I’ll--”  
  
Their words were cut off as Elenwen placed her foot on the slate and put her whole body weight on it. The screen darkened, cracked, and the whole slate split in two a moment later. “The Aldmeri Dominion, in a magnanimous act, has agreed to assist the Empire in its war with the Talos-worshipping rebels.” Elenwen didn’t seem to mind how distraught Mohamara was over the broken slate, and continued to walk around him. “On the condition that we would be granted new embassy space in light of our previous location being sacked by trolls. Per the agreement of Titus Mede II, the College of Winterhold will be repurposed into the new Thalmor Embassy.” The paused and jabbed her finger into the visible bloodstains in Mohamara’s robes from where his hand had been torn off. “You and I will be having some talks about what you were doing down there, with the alleged Augur of Dunlain, about how you rebuilt this city, and what you know about the Eye of Magnus.”  
  
Orchendor hissed. “Khajiit will tell you nothing, Thalmor bit--”  
  
Elenwen cut him off with a snap of her fingers, imperious and not dignifying him with a look. “Mr. Ahramani, I am being courteous enough to inform you of my intentions before we get started. But any rudeness on your part will be seen as grounds to rescind all courtesies offered to you. Am I understood?”  
  
She seemed to take his silence as a yes.  
  
“Then let us find a more private locale to discuss these things, hmm?”  
  
Qorach lashed out at her suddenly, but the flat-snake was sidestepped unnaturally fast by the First Emissary. While the snake coiled for a second attempt, she pointed at it and a ball of Daedric fire consumed Qorach and left nothing in his place. He’d been Banished back to Mohamara’s plane.  
  
“Any more tricks? ...Good. If that happens again, I will involve your children. I’ve heard stories about how adorable your little boy is, I’d _love_ to see them for myself….”  
  
\--  
  
In the manor that had been granted to the Master by the now-deposed Jarl, the Pink Coats gathered.  
  
Orthorn snapped his fingers to light a candle. “Alright, so what do we do about this?”  
  
Adannna was seated in a rocking chair which creaked with each rock. “Khajiit suspects we must wait for the Caller to return.”  
  
Traynda was attempting to summon her dagger on demand -- so far only Orthorn had it down to muscle memory. “We can’t, the Master could be dead or dying by now.”  
  
Brenelin chewed on some jerky, she ate when she was nervous. “The Master’s servitors are still okay, though.” She glanced over where J’zargo’s disembodied arm lay on the table. It twitched and made random hand gestures while Yehochanan scuttled around on it. The spider-crab would press his claws into the limb at odd places, and sparks would erupt from the contact. “Mostly.”  
  
Galamir peaked out the windows and saw Thalmor wandering the streets as if they owned the place. The Justicars and other robed members were actually somewhat of a rarity -- most of the Thalmor presence was in the form of golden-armored troops. “If we do anything to jeopardize the Master’s children, he will be most disappointed in us.”  
  
Jode ran across the floor after a mouse that had Sheogorath’s face, though none of the adults noticed. Jone was sitting up on his own and ran his tiny baby hands through the fur of J’zargo’s disembodied tail.  
  
After some time, the arm Yehochanan had been working on rose up onto its fingers and scuttled away. A disembodied leg hopped up onto the table to fill its place. J’zargo’s head, torso, and other limbs were piled up by the fire. As each piece was repaired, it reattached to the main body  
  
“So what do we do? Nothing?” Traynda growled and finally got her yellow crystal to summon the dagger.  
  
“No,” Orthorn said and then produced a strange black book that seemed to distort the air around it. How he produced it made his fellows cringe and fight back the urge to vomit -- a green tentacle rose up from his mouth, split into four, and the book lay at the base. It wasn’t a big thing, little more than a journal. As the tentacle retreated, Orthorn was able to speak again. “We go looking for something that will help.”  
  
He was promptly slapped in the mouth, not by one of the Pink Coats, but by Toland. The Vigilant had stayed in the background, watching, waiting, and now chose to act. “You lot might not be too evil for Daedra worshippers,” he said and tried to smack the book out of Orthorn’s hand. “But _that_ certainly is!”  
  
“Aww, it’s not too hideous. Stop that, you’ll hurt its feelings!” Othorn held the black, unholy, journal to his chest away from Toland’s slapping hands. The book squelched wetly.  
  
“It’s a _book_ , it doesn’t have feelings. And you just called it hideous!” Toland started to grab for the book and found himself held at bay by Orthorn’s foot. “Hand it over, nothing good can come from it!”  
  
The book made soggier, squelching noises. “Now look what you’ve done, it’s crying!” Orthorn kicked the Nord away and ran with the book still pressed to his chest. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe!”  
  
“It’s an evil, _abominable_ , Daedric relic! Hand it over!”  
  
“No!”  
  
Galamir continued to face the window and pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re doomed.”  
\---

 

 


	68. Too Many Cooks!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The book's talking about CHIM.

  
\---  
 **Chapter 68:** Too many cooks!  
  
The Tullius family was known for their aristocratic bearing in the most trying times, generosity and loyalty to those who cultivated an alliance with them, and bursts of explosive anger. Their family symbol, the Chow Chow -- a breed of dog obtained from Akaviri importation -- reflected this. Beautiful too look at, warm and loving to those they loved, and aggressive to those who presumed too much.  
  
Marcurio had more than once unleashed the furious anger his family was known for, but in light of the current situation, decided that a more strategic vengeance was needed. Mere death would be inadequate for Elenwen’s actions, he decided. No, he would ruin her career and see her a beggar in the streets before he even considered killing her.  
  
So as much as he wanted to go off and send dragons to rescue Mohamara -- he didn’t. Also, because a treatise on magically combatting dragons had recently been published by the court mage of Whiterun, with Mohamara credited as a major source. Marcurio had read it and found it to be spot on with what he’d learned from fighting dragons to become their ‘thuri’. The Thalmor already favored lightning magic -- they would have no problem fighting through dragons as he had done.  
  
Something troubled him, however.  
  
When Mohamara’s line had devolved into a crackling noise and dropped entirely, Yagraz and he had begun to talk about how to get to Winterhold as fast as possible to rain down fire and death upon the Thalmor. But a voice of reason presented itself in the form of a third caller.  
  
“This an automated message from the Psijic Order,” spoke a stilted message in a snooty Alinor accent. “You are being contacted as the current course of action you are about to undertake is most ill-advised. Remember, anger is a weapon only to your opponent, and consider that your angry reaction -- however justified it may be -- is what your enemy desires. Take a moment, calm down, and strategize. The Order will monitor your actions for a brief period of time after this automated message. Please take our survey to inform us if this automated message helped you.”  
  
The caller had butted in quickly, played the message, then left. Yagraz had been so frustrated she hung up in the middle of an outraged roar.  
  
Marcurio had taken the warning as a genuine bit of advice, but also a threat. While the Thalmor and the Psijics weren’t on the same side, they were still mainly made of Elves -- specifically High Elves. Perhaps the Order wanted to spare Marcurio giving their race what Ysgramor had given the Snow Elves.  
  
The realization that complete and utter genocide had been in his top five options of retribution worried Marcurio slightly. And that worry forced him to slow down, plan, drink some tea. And then chastise the cook who had thought to put _mead_ in his tea. Tea was meant to be mixed with rum, bourbon, or bergamot -- none of which existed in Windhelm at the time.  
  
Marcurio spent days in Ulfric’s office when he wasn’t required to be in places about the city -- such as Ulfric’s funeral, or addressing the concerns of the people, or slaughtering small bands of Stormcloak challengers who thought that they could kill him the way he’d killed Ulfric. He spent his time planning a vengeance upon Elenwen so devastating that Malacath would approve.  
  
Until he was distracted by a flood of mail addressed to him. Letters of congratulations from every single noble house in the Empire and one from House Hlaalu in Morrowind, mixed with suspiciously worded requests for an audience. Then came letters of _fealty_ of all things -- from the courts of Jarls, from the Elder Council. Even his father had sent one! Something sculpted of massive fuckery was up.  
  
And it wasn’t until someone from the Guild came to Windhelm that he got answers as to what. Though he had suspicions -- such as making him, a ‘loyal Imperial citizen’ with legal standing in Skyrim’s nobility the new High King. But that didn’t explain the offers of fealty -- the King of Wayrest wasn’t subject to the High-King of Skyrim… anymore!  
  
Brynjolf in his guise as a ‘respectable businessman’ came to Windhelm with the angry young woman of the guild, Sapphire, as his intrepid business partner. They arranged for an audience to discuss some foolish topic that everyone knew wouldn’t be Marcurio’s to weigh in on when he abdicated.  
  
But it got them into the Palace of the Kings, and alone with Marcurio.  
  
“So lad,” Brynjolf started as he leaned next to Ulfric’s fireplace in the Jarl’s office space. “When you asked for someone to come up to Solstheim, I wish you woulda informed me you’ll be leaving our company soon.”  
  
Marcurio lowered his stylish half-moon glasses and arched an eyebrow at Brynjolf before he resumed signing his name on paperwork at the desk. “I have no intention of leaving the Guild. Who’s told you different?”  
  
Sapphire, who watched the door, looked at Brynjolf, who looked at her in turn.  
  
He cleared his throat and spoke up. “Well, lad… we heard the good news.”  
  
Marcurio set his quill down and glared at the redheaded thief. “We’re not playing that stupid game where you drop some information that should make it all clear, I guess, you try to make it clearer, and I keep guessing wrong until you spit it out. What we’re going to do instead is skip to you spitting it out.”  
  
Brynjolf put his hands up as if to ward off an attack. “Easy there, don’t need to be a sourpuss before you’re even on the throne.”  
  
Marcurio kept his eyes locked on Brynjolf and snapped his fingers. A mote of flame hovered above his pointer finger.  
  
Brynjolf got the message. “Alright, alright. Mara’s tits, man.” He rubbed the back of his head and stepped away from the fireplace to approach the fellow Nightingale. “Proclamations went out a few days ago, all that ‘hear ye, hear ye’ stuff. Word from the Imperial City is that you’re to be the next Emperor. Guess old Titus likes ya, huh?”  
  
The sheer scope of what he’d just been told took a moment for Marcurio to parse. Already he could see the relationship between the East Empire Company and the Empire’s government souring over the bait and switch that had been done with the Vicis -- Vittoria hadn’t been aware of her status, but her parents likely were. Marcurio’s mind took him out of the scene with Brynjolf and Sapphire there while he thought about it more. Because of Marcurio’s presence in the Rift during the rebellion, the Dominion would at least accuse him of Talos worship, if they hadn’t done so because of Mohamara already. For a moment he was able to just imagine his little family enjoying the creature comforts of the Imperial City, but that quickly ended when he remembered the sheer number of realpolitik decisions that the Emperor had made in Marcurio’s lifetime alone.  
  
Would Mohamara wish to be his husband, after the Emperor of Tamriel ordered a family’s murder because it was the most convenient option? To be wed to the god of Kindness would be troublesome politically, great publicly. And either way, he needed to set about his vengeance and rescue the colorful cat. Ruining Elenwen’s life and career, however, became much easier as the heir to the Imperial throne.  
  
A good old fashioned international incident.  
  
Marcurio snapped back to the scene before Brynjolf or Sapphire could notice he’d spaced out. “Ah. That minor thing,” Marcurio rolled his eyes and lied as easily as breathing. “I didn’t intend to leave the Guild over _that_. I’ll still need drinking buddies, and I’ll still have work to do. Plus, I figured you and the Guild might like to have someone who can point out people in need of a… shift in fortunes.”  
  
Brynjolf chuckled, and grinned at the Imperial. “You know, having someone on the inside of the Empire’s government _would_ be a nice setup….”  
  
\--  
  
“The elder scroll is exerting some sort of magical force upon them,” reported Ondolemar, recalled from Markarth to join Elenwen and Ancano as the leaders of the Thalmor in Skyrim. Ancarion out on Solstheim was available to reinforce them if necessary. But Elenwen didn’t think it would become necessary. “We cannot separate them more than a few feet, we broke the green one’s arm trying.”  
  
On the roof of the former College of Winterhold, Elenwen stood with her back to her lieutenants and gazed out over the Sea of Ghosts. Just barely within view was Skyborn Altar, an ancient sacrificial site to the dragons, in their veneration of Kaan, the dragon version of Kynareth. She and Ancano were more adapted to the cold, while Ondolemar had spent years in the comparatively pleasant Reach, so he shivered while they stood strong.  
  
“And the Augur?” Elenwen asked when the information wasn’t offered freely. She already knew such lack of proactive assurance meant the being was no longer of use to them.  
  
“It appears that the Augur is no longer bound to the chamber,” Ancano muttered. “Mr. Ahramani asserts that he assisted the Augur in ascension to godhood.”  
  
“Have our watchers been able to confirm this?”  
  
Ondolemar flipped to another page of his report, and read it. “Approximately five days ago, subject twenty-nine was abducted by Daedric forces most likely in the service of Azura. These two events likely mean that subject twenty-nine was indeed the Nerevarine.” The only hooded Thalmor in attendance scoffed. “Guess he wasn’t lying about everything, was he?”  
  
“I see.” Elenwen let the two of them stand in silence while she contemplated. She was comfortable with silence, it was an advantage she cultivated that unnerved her colleagues. “Have our staff made our guests welcome?”  
  
Ancano’s smile was so wide Elenwen could almost hear it. “The staff are quite enjoying having a tojay to pet whenever they wish, instead of having to go all the way to Elsweyr. Mr. Ahramani, the pink one, is mostly tolerant of the staff’s behavior, but the green one isn’t quite so receptive. There have been injuries.”  
  
“Have the green one’s teeth pulled, then.” Elenwen tried so hard not to be disgusted with the way Ancano flinched at her orders. “For a trained mage like him, he will be able to grow them back without issue -- but the experience will teach him not to bare fang at his betters.”  
  
The hoodless Justicar hesitated with the affirmation. “As you command, First Emissary.”  
  
“Good. And the package?” Rather than answer her, orders were barked by her lieutenants behind her. A large wooden box was brought in, and the top opened up. Elenwen turned just enough to reach out her hand and take that which she had sent for. A staff as tall as a Dunmer, square at the head with outwardly curved spikes. All of Dwemer metal, and tipped with a diamond-shaped point. “Ah, good. Once Mr. Ahramani’s twin has regenerated his teeth, we can begin the extraction process with this.” In a good mood, Elenwen began to spin the staff in her hands like a baton. “Ancano, you’ve mapped our target, correct?”  
  
The cat-lover hesitated again, then confirmed that he had. “The Augur did not give direct answers in that manner. But I was able to narrow it down to fourteen square mile grid north and west of Red Mountain. We’ll need to reassemble it to the level it was constructed to previously before we can complete the construction.”  
  
“A minor detail for we who will be as living gods.” The First Emissary began to toss the staff in the air, remembering her old baton-twirling routine when she was a girl. “How ironic. Sotha Sil improved upon so many of the Dwemer’s devices, and one that he discarded such would be an improvement on Kagrenac’s Tools.” She paused as she recalled another bit of information that hadn’t been volunteered. “And what of the forge?” However, her menacing aura was soon dispelled as she failed to catch the staff on her next toss. What followed was a panicked scramble as she lept over the side of the college to grab the staff, Ondolemar lept over the side of the college to grab Elenwen’s ankles, and Ancano was able to grab Ondolemar’s ankles before jumping became necessary.  
  
“First Emissary, Ondolemar?” Ancano hissed as he struggled to pull his fellows back up. “Could I please recommend you eat _fewer sweetrolls_ in the future? You’re both ridiculously heavy.”  
  
\--  
  
Miraak’s gatekeeper found herself not only re-killed, and propelled through the gate she had been meant to guard with such force that the gate gave out and was rendered as rubble. Yagraz was pissed beyond all reason, and once again was in no position to do anything about it. She couldn’t get to Winterhold just yet. Kipgolsik could give her a ride, but she couldn’t kill her way through the entire Thalmor presence in Skyrim.  
  
Not yet anyway.  
  
There, past the gate was a chamber. Yagraz cared little for the organic webbing-like structure between the familiar pointed curved archways that framed the room, or the oil-like ooze that seemed to pool just underneath the floor. She barely even cared for the book she found there. Yagraz knew it had to be some Daedric fuckery, so she yanked Volendrung free of the Draugr corpse it rested in and brought the Dwemer hammer down on the unnaturally black book.  
  
She was promptly blasted with a shockwave so strong that she and Volendrung left indentations in the wall behind her. But given that the wall was soft and squishy, perhaps that was less impressive.  
  
Frea, the more practical of the two, opted not to immediately attack the book but came to help Yagraz down from the wall. “What happened?”  
  
“I did what any sensible person ought to do, and smash the Daedric book with a big hammer,” Yragaz defended her actions while lines of mucus connected her to her indent in the wall. She cut through the mucus with clear disgust.  
  
Meanwhile, in Winterhold, Orthorn continued to run through the streets. He dodged many Thalmor patrols and even Justicars as Toland chased after him with a big steel warhammer.  
  
But back in Solstheim, Yagraz found the way out -- a side passage from the chamber -- blocked. As in a cave-in from perhaps centuries ago had blocked the way. They would need to go back the way they came to leave the temple of Miraak, which would have meant they’d struggled thus far for nothing. Unless the book had something to offer.  
  
“If I read this thing, and the first words out of my mouth aren’t ‘Mora looked good when he died’, chop my head off,” Yagraz told Frea as she opened the black book. Inside was elemental knowledge that poured into Yagraz’s head.  
  
 _’Waking Dreams -- by Bilius Felcrex,  
  
The eyes, once bleached by falling stars of utmost revelation, will forever see the faint light drawn by the overwhelming question, as only the True Inquiry shapes the edge of thought.  
  
The rest is vulgar fiction, attempts to impose order on the consensus mantlings of an uncaring godhead. First, accept that the Wheel is a lie._  
  
While Yagraz read, tendrils of thought emerged from the book and gripped her tight. When she closed the book, she wasn’t in the barrow turned temple any longer. She was in a realm of towers formed from books, standing among an ocean of green oil from which tentacles emerged, and a sickly green sky seemed to shine with a yellow light behind it. A scaleless dragon swooped across her vision as she looked, and landed on a stone platform that was littered with pages pressed into the rock. There she saw a pair of Hermaeus Mora’s Daedra, floating tentacle wizards called Seekers, and a man in ornate robes with a mask like a Seeker’s noodly face.  
  
Something in her told Yagraz that she couldn’t stop to watch as the man turned to face her, she needed to _act_. So she was prepared when bolts of lightning were thrown at her, deflected by her shield and Volendrung.  
  
“You have superb reflexes,” the man praised her. His voice was sonorous, the kind that would quiet a room once heard. “You are Dragonborn, I can feel it. Certainly more worthy of the power than that other one.”  
  
Yagraz didn’t know how he could feel her being a Dragonborn, but if he could, it likely meant he was Dragonborn as well. And with that, it narrowed down the possibility of who he could be down to one: Miraak. “And you have shit aim,” she fired back. **”Wuld Nah Kest!”**  
  
She used the acceleration of Whirlwind Sprint combined with the magic of her red shoes to almost blink out of existence and reappear inches in front of Miraak to shoulder-charge him with tremendous force.  
  
Miraak skipped along the surface of the oil like a thrown stone, flipped in the air and landed on his feet on a protruding tentacle, but Yagraz paid him little mind during that process. She was occupied dispatching his minions with pathetic ease. As it turned out, dragons without scales were rather like soldiers without armor: Easily turned into nasty paste on the ground.  
  
 **”Wuld Nah Kest!”** Miraak Shouted his way back to the platform, drew a strange curved sword that resembled a mass of tentacles wrapped around a cartoonishly oversized orichalcum kitchen knife, and slashed at Yagraz with it  
  
The blade caught on the spikes of Volendrung as the two Dragonborn clashed. A shockwave not unlike that which Unrelenting Force produced resulted from their locked weapons -- it sent the dragon’s corpse flying as its soul tore free of its bones. The soul was split between the two Dragonborn, who had eyes only for each other.  
  
“You are strong, Dragonborn,” Miraak said as he reinforced his blade by resting his off-hand on the blunt non-cutting edge.  
  
Yagraz similarly supported Volendrung by putting her shield hand on the weapon’s haft.  
  
“Tell me, Last Dragonborn… how good is your healer?”  
  
\---

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People who've played the Morrowind expansion of ESO, tell the class why they should be concerned.


	69. Talk murder to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *plays saxophone dramtically*

\---  
  
**Chapter 69:** Interconnection.  
  
Apocrypha shook and shuddered with the force of two legendary warriors conflicting with each other. Towers of primordial knowledge collapsed under the strain of their Shouts, Daedra were laid low and cast into the waters of Oblivion to reform later. All in all, it was quite the racket.  
  
Master Neloth, of House Telvanni, found the whole affair quite excessive. He stood upon the summit of The Hidden Twilight and looked upon the City of Inkseeds that the physical book had described: Apocrypha. The Dunmer Councilor found that a lot of the book’s contents had been a metaphor, or memetic in nature -- and that the atmosphere of learning was utterly ruined by fools who made such a din.  
  
In his hands, he worked a piece of aetherial crystal, his intent to carve incredibly small pieces off to form connectors in his latest enchantment project. He was to attend a divine wedding as House Telvanni’s representative, and a gift worthy of House Telvanni was necessary. But there was other knowledge he needed for his designs, hence he came to Apocrypha.  
  
Thankfully, without that dreadful linear progression thing, he had infinite amounts of time to wait for the knowledge to be revealed to him.  
  
The pages that littered the ground fluttered up in a miniature cyclone, and when they parted, they revealed another Mer. Neloth was garbed in resplendent golds and reds -- bold and authoritative. But the other man was dressed in demure pink, in the style of a novice.  
  
“Ah, you’re back,” Neloth greeted the other with as close to tolerance as he could muster. “Here to enrage our host once more? There’s enough of a racket here without _that_ , so you know.”  
  
The other Mer, an Altmer, tilted his head to better catch the sounds of combat. “Who’s fighting? Miraak, definitely, but someone else. Is it that other Dragonborn again?”  
  
“No.” Neloth made use of a levitation spell to hold the chunk of aetherium in place so he could inscribe it with a rune of minuscule size. “A _fourth_ Dragonborn, could you believe it?”  
  
His fellow forbidden knowledge seeker rubbed his temples. “One Dragonborn is a headache. Two is a migraine. Three cause seizures. But four? Dare I call it a cranial infarction?”  
  
Neloth actually laughed. The humor of the other man was much like his own, though not the same intelligence to back it up. “Ah yes, a bleed that causes the loss of cranial tissue -- most apt given they are destroying sections of the realm.” With his inscription done, Neloth pocketed the aetherium mote and produced a chunk of the bewitched ice from Solstheim. “The new one’s a _woman_ , so there’s some more variety. Perhaps they’ll breed?” He held out the chunk to the other man. “Show me how to carve this wretched thing again. I require it for a heat sink.”  
  
The Altmer rolled his eyes and conjured a blade from a peculiar morpholith he carried with him. “You could always take notes, so you could figure it out yourself.”  
  
“And give you the _satisfaction_?” Neloth observed the process for a minute, then took his stalhrim piece back. Automatically, he conjured a bound dagger in the shape of a scalpel and went to work on the ice. “I would have figured it out eventually.”  
  
“Sure you would have! It’s not difficult once you know what to look for.” The damnable Altmer’s easy confidence came off as gloating to Neloth. The great Telvanni mage had needed _help_. Frankly, that was worth gloating over, to be so competent that even the Telvanni Councilors found one useful.   
  
Neloth would never tell his fellow that -- like he would never admit the other man was better at applying the knowledge gained from Apocrypha than Neloth was. “What are you seeking today, hmm? Another impossible task?”  
  
“Nah.” The Altmer began his stretches and looked out among the endless sea of Oblivion's waters. “Something more immediate. I need to rescue someone.”  
  
Neloth scoffed. “Let them rescue themselves -- how else will they learn? You waste your time.”  
  
“And when will you learn that no act of kindness, however small or foolish, is wasted?”  
  
The Telvanni waved his hand, flippant. “Bah, you’re impossible when you get sanctimonious. Why don’t you go talk to the other two Dragonborn, then? Perhaps they’ll have some insight for you.”  
  
The Altmer huffed and backed up in anticipation of a running leap. “Maybe I will!”  
  
“Well, fine!”  
  
“Fine!” The other Mer suddenly ran for the edge and cast himself off. He lept from stacks of books to the walls of structures, he used the tentacles like springboards and would ride a Seeker like a hang-glider on occasion as he vanished over the horizon.  
  
Alone, Neloth went back to working on his present. “It was nice to see him again,” he admitted to himself and the omnipresent Daedric Prince.  
  
\--  
  
Marcurio’s reign as Jarl of Eastmarch lasted the shortest out of all the previous Jarls, including those who became Jarl in periods of active warfare. Once Brunwulf Free-Winter was accepted by the other Thanes as the presumptive new Jarl, Marcurio officially abdicated Eastmarch back into Nord rule.  
  
Free-Winter was a good man, a peer of Ulfric, but touched by an uncommon ailment among veterans: Empathy. The first thing the elderly, balding, haunted Nord asked for as a Jarl? That if Marcurio, as the Emperor, could pardon the Stormcloaks that Brunwulf would vouch for, and if he could delay their execution or extradition to the Thalmor.  
  
Marcurio’s words were thus: “If the Empire had detailed records of everyone who went and became a Stormcloak, they would have to do a detailed census to know who was a rebel and who was a civilian. Ulfric lost so many men, thousands in Hjaalmarch alone. Why it would be mad to think he had a sizable force left…”  
  
In short: The Empire would be relying on Brunwulf to tell them who was a Stormcloak and who wasn’t. All he’d need to do was point to the extremists, and dispose of the regalia. There were several new bonfires in Windhelm as Marcurio left the city.  
  
He had business to attend to.  
  
Business that he found interrupted when he set foot down at Faldar’s Tooth. In his absence, the castle had begun to resemble what it had been in the Second Era, a fortress. The beginnings of a settlement had taken shape along the shores of Lake Honrich, around the dock facing Goldenglow Estate met the shore, in the shadow of the Tooth.  
  
And to his immense shock, he found Imperial soldiers there waiting for him again. Not ordinary Legionnaires, but their dour cousins the Penitus Oculatus. Formed in the aftermath of the Blades disbandment, they were spies, bodyguards for the emperor, assassins and elite troops. Trained from childhood, because using brainwashed child soldiers was obviously the most efficient way to go. Their armor was black with a dark red tunic underneath as if to scream to the citizens of the Empire ‘we are bad people, rawr’.  
  
And naturally, their leader was none other than Commander Myrrine Demetrios Maro. Regional commander for the King’s elite forces, and a consummate jackass. The two of them, Myrrine and Marcurio, had a history.  
  
“Greetings,” the black-haired, widows peaked, villainously mustached man said through clenched teeth as Marcurio entered his own home. “I am Commander Maro, ordered to command your personal guards by his Excellency the Emperor Titus Mede II.”  
  
Marcurio crossed his arms and smirked. “I require personal guards, do I?” The Nibenese man flipped his hand dismissively to the Colovian. “Well, where I’m going you won’t be able to keep up, so you might as well stay here and guard my home.”  
  
Maro clenched his fists, enraged by the disinterest in Marcurio’s tone most likely. “My lord, I must ask that you refrain from all activities that would put yourself at risk. If necessary, we are within our authority to confine you to your home until your wedding.”  
  
Marcurio scoffed and walked past Maro into the Tooth. “Unlikely, Maro. Without action on my part, there is likely not going to be a wedding.” Marcurio’s keen ears picked up on the Commander following behind him. “It seems the Thalmor have decided to capture and possibly torture my fiance.”  
  
“That is a serious accusation, which will require proof.”  
  
Down into the castle they went, Marcurio checked on his spiders, on the tailors from Morrowind he had hired, and on the general state of the staff. It seemed his steward had proven his mettle and managed things beautifully in his absence. Nothing quite like Hlaalu management.  
  
“And proof I have. My betrothed and our children--”  
  
“You already have bastards?”  
  
“ _Our children_ were in Winterhold on an assignment from General Tullius.” Marcurio desperately wanted to threaten the Colovian with violence, but that wouldn’t be useful for Marcurio’s plans. “A short while ago, the Thalmor invaded Winterhold. And I have a source who confirms that Elenwen intercepted messages meant for me from my fiance then arrested him.”  
  
“Just let him go, not like it would be the _first_ fiance you abandoned. You can strike a better match for the Empire since we already have the gold from the dowry for that cat --” Maro looked like he wanted to speak further, but the Nibenese man whirled on him and focused a withering glare on the Colovian. At last, he had a useful opportunity to threaten Maro.  
  
“The price for you bringing up my husband’s race, or gender as a negative motivator as to why I should focus on his rescue is that I collect your fucking head. You might not like it but my fiance is both the best option for the Empire right now, and someone I’m emotionally invested in. Any problems with that?” Marcurio held Maro’s gaze for two minutes while he waited for a reply. But none came forth. “Good. Now if you want to try and keep up, I’m going to Falkreath, I need to talk to some people about a murder.”  
  
\--  
  
Maven Black-Briar had been outplayed. She realized this as she stood on the balcony of her family mansion and watched an Imperial garrison march into the city to secure it for the transition back to Imperial rule.  
  
Her family had long been the ones to support the Guild, to represent the interests of those with financial vision in the Rift, and to be the true power behind the Jarl. It had been that way since the Second Era. Maven had long been at the top of her local pecking order, and a major player in the ones abroad. Black-Briar mead was famous the continent over. Her family had owned property in every province of mainland Tamriel at their height.  
  
And now, one of her toadies, her minions, her damnable _debtors_ in the Thieves Guild was to become Emperor once Titus died. Worse, she knew that the man would be married to a Khajiit long before he became Emperor. Perhaps she could offer her daughter as a second wife -- it was a Nord tradition to engage in polyamory, she could spin it as appeasing the Nords by adopting a tradition of theirs.  
  
The boy -- what was his name? Marc? Something like that. The boy was reasonable and competent. He would see the natural need for heirs, which only a bride could provide him. Word on the street was that the Khajiit fiance had sired two bastards prior to the marriage agreement. Ignun was fond of poisons, surely the girl could dispose of them and make it appear an accident.  
  
No. She shook her head to be rid of the idea. No, she couldn’t even propose that. Sibby had crossed the Dark Brotherhood in a way even Maven couldn’t shield him from, she wouldn’t lose her last child to that same mistake. Enduring another pregnancy would be too much of a strain on her business in a delicate time. Ignun wasn’t even in Riften -- she had asked to go to Falkreath and help her new employee Vilod set up an ideal meadery in Lakeview, a new settlement since Helgen was gone. Had she and Marc met before? Perhaps she could spin that to her advantage -- Ignun not being present meant her _proclivities_ couldn’t sabotage Maven’s plans. For once.  
  
Just so long as the fool girl didn’t get involved with the Dark Brotherhood’s affairs, all would be well.  
  
\--  
  
Being a Dark Sister, Ignun decided, was absolutely fantastic! Everyone in the Falkreath sanctuary was warm and inviting of her fascination with poisons and death. True the work was dirtier than a Black-Briar heiress was expected to do, but she found it strangely fulfilling. The people she’d met were so _kind_!  
  
Minus the brutal murders, of course.  
  
Babette, the Breton child turned vampire, was a master poisoner, and seemed happy to have a second alchemist in the group. “At last!” The lass of three hundred years had cried, jubilant. “Someone else who can craft poisons of ‘help me regenerate my fingers’!”  
  
Nazir was stunningly handsome but so snarky that she couldn’t tell if he was genuinely insulting her or not. But then, he was a Redguard warrior of great skill -- the Redguard way of fighting was all about manipulation of what your enemy expected of you. Perhaps he was living the philosophy?  
  
The mages were rather standoffish in her opinion. But Astrid, the matron of the Brotherhood Cell, seemed to like her well enough. The same couldn’t be said for Astrid’s husband, Anbjorn, the werewolf. But if she kept working, she would prove to be just as much an assassin as any of them!  
  
Cicero, the Keeper of the Night Mother, came from another cell. And he was, to be blunt, insane. But when she had offered to make special oils to help preserve the Night Mother’s body, he had been so happy she couldn’t think negatively anymore. He called her his ‘kindly sister’.  
  
Her mother would have some things to say about Ignun joining with the group that had murdered her brother, but then Sibbi had been frankly a monster. He needed to die for the good of everyone else. If the Dark Brotherhood hadn’t done it, Ignun would have. But she didn’t need to worry about what her mother wanted anymore! She could stay hidden with the Dark Brotherhood for the rest of her life and escape that uncaring stare that found Ignun’s hobbies disgusting, that found _Ignun_ disgusting.  
  
At least she thought so, on her way back from killing a Khajiit slave trader named Vasha, until she saw Legion soldiers outside the sanctuary. They wore the garb of the Penitus Oculatus, the Emperor’s assassins, spies, and guards -- and their presence signaled all kinds of warnings in Ignun’s head.  
  
She wasn’t a great warrior or mage, she couldn’t fight her way to her new family… but perhaps she could concoct a poisonous mist if she just slapped some highly reactive chemicals together and --  
  
“We found a returning Sister,” an Imperial’s voice shouted from nearby. Ignun looked up to see a young Penitus Oculatus soldier walk through a bush to stand between her and the Sanctuary. Ignun wasn’t good at stealth, either. But the man had no weapons, perhaps she could kill him and get away?   
  
Her hand quickly went to the Elven dagger she had gotten from Elgrim for cutting ingredients.  
  
“Hold on,” the soldier said with hands held up. “We aren’t here to fight the Brotherhood.” He took off his helmet as if that would prove it. “I’m Gaius Maro, my commander and an important Imperial nobleman are talking with your matron about some business for the Empire at the moment.”  
  
That wasn’t good! Ignun got even more worried. Astrid had asked her to spy on Cicero, so she had taken the opportunity to test some of the preservatives, and wound up in the corpse’s iron maiden. There had been some hallucinations about the corpse talking to her, Cicero had cried about Listeners, Astrid had been angry, and Ignun had been sent out to talk to someone who wanted to assassinate Titus Mede II. All a really grand adventure!  
  
And now it was likely going to end because the Empire had _found them_! Ignun drew her dagger, unconvinced by Gaius’ words, and resolved to kill him or die trying.  
  
“Ignun, put that away!” A blonde Nord woman in black and red studded leather armor stepped through the crowd of Penitus Oculatus, and toward the younger assassin. “It’s alright!”  
  
“But…,” Ignun started, though she realized she was about to spill the secret of the plot on the Emperor.  
  
“No buts, missy. This is, aside from the door we need to replace, a fantastic day.” Astrid threw an arm around Ignun and guided her away from Gaius.  
  
He seemed confused, honestly.  
  
“You know about the Morag Tong? They’re an assassin group as well, they make it out to be some religious matter. But we, the Dark Brotherhood, treat it as a business.” Astrid sounded rather like Maven, but genuine in her affection. “So, since business has been slow, the Empire is offering us some… guaranteed work.” The blond Nord looked dismissively over the Penitus Oculatus troops that they passed on their way into the Falkreath sanctuary. The door had been blasted off and embedded in the wall behind it! “These men the Empire has doing their assassin work are, frankly, amateurs. Can’t kill anyone even remotely a threat. So the Empire wants to set up a… partnership with the Brotherhood. You've got a mind for business, so I want you to look over the contract they’re offering us. See if there’s any nonsense, stuff like that.”  
  
“Wait,” Ignun asked as she stepped into the antechamber for the Sanctuary. “You’re saying the Empire wants to… hire us?”  
  
“The word I _distinctly_ recall using,” spoke a strikingly handsome Imperial man Ignun recognized as a Thane of the Rift and Thieves Guild member, “was ‘subcontract’. At least for the first few years.”  
  
\---


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mr. Churchill said we had nothing to fear but fear itself, but I believe whales should be feared. They're bastards.

  
\---  
**Chapter 70:** Opportunist.  
  
“Is there a _point_ to this?”  
  
“Hmmm, maybe? I’m more about curves than points, boyo.”  
  
Mohamara looked up from his work on regenerating Orchendor’s teeth to _glare_ at Sheogorath. Well, he couldn’t exactly glare at the Mad God, Sheogorath was floating around in his eyes again. Every time the Khajiit god tried to escape their confinement by way of Mysticism, Sheogorath would put them right back.  
  
They teleported to Winterhold, to Volskygge, or any random location they could feel out? Sheogorath would put them right back a literal second later. He seemed to have warded their entire cell with his influence -- an impenetrable wall of his sympathetic bonds kept Mohamara from opening the cell door or moving the building.  
  
At least he hadn’t stopped Mohamara from disabling Orchendor’s ability to feel pain when the Thalmor had come to pull his teeth. Their torture had become more of a nuisance. Mohamara could hear Serana pacing in her cell, which she shared with Tolfdir. It seemed that the Thalmor wanted to keep all the tojay, even the cursed ones, in one spot. Thalmor usually came to manhandle Mohamara and Orchendor -- their fur was softer.  
  
Whether or not Sheogorath deigned to keep _them_ confined as thoroughly was unknown to the protoform et’Ada.  
  
Sheogorath grinned into Mohamara’s glare. “You’re the one who asked me to be the primary antagonistic force in your life, boyo.”  
  
The pink cat arched a brow. “Can I ask for something else now?”  
  
“Well, you could, but it might take a bit for me to get into the mood.” The Mad God vomited up a troll skull and held it up dramatically. “I’m an arteest! A master crafter of madness-inducing mayhem!” He held his pose for a moment, then cracked open his eyes when Mohamara didn’t immediately devolve into ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’.  
  
“Three out of ten, not enough alliteration.” Mohamara stuck his tongue out when his father scowled at him. “Maybe you should stick to puns.”  
  
Sheogorath actually recoiled. “Boy, puns are a special form of art. You have to let the situation develop, for the right time to unleash it, for the creation of groans and maybe one laugh. You give it a shot!”  
  
Mohamara squinted. “I may be a god of love, but making people groan is more Dibella’s field of expertise.”  
  
“Now, see, that’s a witty comeback, not a pun. They’re similar, but I know you can do puns, your friend and you have that sort of dual pointing thing.”  
  
“That’s what she said.”  
  
Sheogorath seemed to pull the equivalent of Khajiit puffing up but as a Nord. It gave him an afro, which seemed unnatural on him. “Now see, you keep doing things _instead_ of making a pun. I’m trying to set you up for a pun, like a good dad. I’m trying real hard here.”  
  
“Hello trying real hard here, I’m dad.”  
  
The ends of Sheogorath’s hair caught on fire as his teeth sharpened, his smile became manic, and he began to shift into his Sheggorath aspect. “ **Now listen here, you little _shit_** \--”  
  
Mohamara’s expression hadn’t changed up until then, as he refocused on Orchendor.  
  
The green tojay opened his mouth again so that the bleeding gums could become the focus for Mohamara’s healing magic. One by one, new teeth burst through the inflamed gums and took their proper place.  
  
“Dangit son,” Sheggorath deflated into Sheogorath when Mohamara didn’t react as desired. “You were good and terrified of me six months ago, now you’re acting like your mother. The mood swings are really nice, I appreciate the effort, but you’re _so hard_ to have fun with now.” The Mad God danced around on one of Orchendor’s molars as he floated in Mohamara’s eye.  
  
“Well good to know I have some connection to a woman dead before I was born.” He casually flicked at Sheogorath in the air, using perspective to let his finger impact the Mad God and remove him from Mohamara’s sight. “Also good to know she meant so little to you that the most you talk about her is how my mannerisms derived from her are brought up as a negative.”  
  
Sheogorath popped out of Mohamara’s eye and into the cell, he skid on the floor for a sec before sitting up. “Wait, you’re doing that thing where you take what I say and do, analyze it, and use it to figure out things about me. What was that called?” The Nord-like Daedra scratched his head with a series of tiny arms that held each other in dainty pinched fingers until the last one acted as an open scratching hand.  
  
“Using basic logic?” Mohamara and Orchendor asked at once.  
  
“Trying my patience, that’s it!” Sheogorath whipped the chain of hands around and they all pointed at Mohamara in triumph. “And stop calling your mother dead -- she might get upset with ya. And that’s my job! I’m the only one Meri-pants is allowed to be upset with about this!” He, and his collection of miniature arms, all produced contracts of various sizes. “Got it notarized!”  
  
Orchendor’s teeth were fully regrown, so he sat up and worked his jaw for a second. “Um,” the more magical mage-cat spoke up once he was sure all the teeth were firmly rooted, “Khajiit was talking about his birth mother, not Meridia.”  
  
Sheogorath tilted his head, then grinned a most vicious grin. “Oh, you poor stupid half-mortal. First you can’t piece it together that I’m your daddy, and now you don’t know your own mother after living in her house for years?” The Mad God and all his tiny arms wagged their fingers, disapproving. “I know both me and Meri-pants are smarter than that, so I guess that didn’t get passed down to you.”  
  
Both tojay pointed at Sheogorath and the Mad God’s head promptly turned around to almost face the reverse. For some strange reason, it filled Mohamara with a palpable sense of dread.  
  
But Sheogorath’s head kept turning until it was the right way around, and he seemed no worse for wear. “And you have your mother’s temper, too! Thankfully, you don’t have mine. A few of your sister do! Hoo, are those girls _vindictive_.” The Mad God flicked his finger, and both cats recoiled from a sudden blow to their heads. “Now, horseplay can come later. When you’re not so squishy -- right now I’m doing one of my devotees a favor, and keeping you locked up.”  
  
“Wait…” Mohamara growled as he rubbed the developing sore spot on his forehead. That telekinetic blow had _stung!_ “The Thalmor worship you?!”  
  
The blind Nord barked out a laugh. “Hah! Nah, most of them swing Boethia’s way. That hooded one -- he likes me. And I like him! Don’t let that stuffy outside fool you, crack that outer shell and he’s so _charmingly_ unhinged.” Sheogorath crossed his arms, his legs, his teeth, all as he floated up to the ceiling. “He got himself a boon, and he used it to keep you here, and more or less pliable. Which…” The vicious smile returned. “Might just be best served by dropping that mommy bomb on you.”  
  
“Khajiit thinks Skooma Cat makes even less sense than usual,” Orchendor commented. “He is slightly impressed.” He and Mohamara stayed on the floor, happy to have a greater distance between them and Sheogorath.  
  
“Oh that’s sweet, but not sweet enough.” The Mad God snapped his fingers and a helpful visual aid in the form of sockpuppets manned by his many tiny hands appeared. “Now, here’s you and the other you, and that one you that won’t come into existence until a few chapters later.”  
  
“Wait, what?” Mohamara and Orchendor asked at once, then squinted at the blue sock puppet. “Why’s it so pointy?”  
  
“You’ll find out. Anyway! These are you. And this is me!” The Sheogorath puppet was a to-scale representation of a stunningly beautiful Nord man as a porcelain doll. “And this is your mother!” A blank sock puppet was used. “Or rather, who you think she is. All your life, she’s just been an idea to you, someone out of reach. And here’s Meri-pants!” A winged sock puppet came forth. “Always shining bright, there to offer guidance and criticism!”  
  
“Is there a roadmap to the point somewhere around here?” Mohamara cut in.  
  
“You’re lucky your cute or I’d make you breathe guacamole for interrupting me.” The Sheogorath doll shook its hand, disapproving. “Anyway! Isn’t it odd how Meridia stuck her neck out for you? I mean, as my baby boy, you have quite a lot of enemies by default! Why would she risk so much for one mortal?”  
  
Doubt Mohamara had struggled to dispel himself began to well up again.  
  
“Let me spell it out for you.” The Sheogorath doll and the Meridia puppet began to kiss and smoosh against each other while Sheogorath made odd sounds, then they parted, the Meridia puppet swole up, and the pink Mohamara puppet emerged from beneath it. “Piece it together yet?”  
  
It took a few seconds for Mohamara and Orchendor to work past the grossness of watching an effigy of their father make out with someone. And then a few seconds more to connect the clearly labeled dots.  
  
Sheogorath grinned so wide, if he’d actually been a Nord, he would have split his mouth. “Ah, there’s that look of dawning realization again.”  
  
\--  
  
The ship that was Mohamara’s realm had taken the opportunity to repair itself in a parking orbit around Magnus. The crew was hard at work sealing the gaps and repairing the fissures that had formed on the exterior. What had once been a steam liner had become a more modern zeppelin airship, able to move in three directions.  
  
Things were going well. Until they weren’t. Signified by a massive explosion along the realm’s outer hull. Divine metal groaned as one of the zeppelin’s four engines ceased operating. Without the stability of all four engines, the realm’s parking orbit began to degrade and it drifted toward Magnus. In the primary chamber, where the god’s mind dwelled, the pistons began to move faster and faster -- beyond their specifications in an attempt to compensate. This precipitated another engine exploding when it couldn’t handle the strain.  
  
In the control room where the officer-dressed major functions of Mohamara’s mind stood at attention in front of their matched chadburn, unmoved as all around them worker Mohamara’s began to rush, and alarms began to blare. Even the rattling of the superstructure affected them none. Mr. Moody’s station began to ring, prompting the neurochemical manufacturer to step forward, open the compartment where the speaker was hidden, and activate it. “What is the issue?”  
  
“We’ve got a cascade failure in progress!” One of the sub-functions under Moody responded, frantic. On the other end the sound of fires raged, but also the sound of rushing liquid. “The main reservoir burst, we’re flooding!”  
  
“Right.” Mr. Moody disengaged the speaker and stood up. “All stop!”  
  
“All stop,” replied the other functions as they and Mr. Moody adjusted their chadburns accordingly. Mr. Reflecty, upon touching his chadburn, began to violently shake as electricity arced between his teeth and ears. In moments, all that was left of the self-reflective function was a charred cat that held the chadburn tight. Reflection was stuck at ‘ahead full’.  
  
“Engage emergency compartmentalization! Bypass Mr. Reflecty’s control from the backup station!” The officers, at last, began to move around the control room to follow Mr. Moody’s orders.  
  
The ship had entered a death spiral, with only half its engines functioning, and a substantial part of the outer hull on fire, the protoform realm couldn’t do much to escape the natural creatia current from Aetherius to Oblivion. Inside the ship, the major centers of thought and awareness isolated themselves in an attempt to keep them safe from the cascade systems failure.  
  
Mr. Moody was en route to the backup control room when a wet slapping sound under his boots made him begin to suspect the compartmentalization had not been enacted quickly enough. When he got to the stairs down into the sub-mental levels, he found evidence. A strong current of neurochemicals flowed through the halls, and surely the flooding would worsen. But with Mr. Reflecty’s station still active, the problem would only get worse.  
  
Mr. Moody and the other offices locked arms as they descended, and used their collective strength to wade against the current through the use of the walls as anchors. Inside the backup station was the simplified control method for each of the officer’s major functions -- they took the form of a ceiling fan from which many strings hung down to indicate the relevant function. There was nothing else in the station -- but the officers had trained for this.  
  
That’s what they told themselves anyway. One by one, they let the current in the room press them against a wall, they would stack upon themselves. When Mr. Moody did the same, he was pushed forward by the cat-made barrier to grab at the station cord for Reflection. Mr. Moody grabbed the chain tipped with a small mirror and pulled once, twice, three times.  
  
With all stations at ‘Stop’, the ship shut down. The lights went out, the pistons that had been firing stopped, and only the automatic functions remained online. The crew of Mohamara clones, without the chugging of the engines, could hear the ship careening through creatia until it struck the surface of Magnus. The impact threw people from their places of safety, as the waters of Oblivion entered in through the damage in the super-structure.  
  
The neurochemical pumps brought the liquid emotion down enough for the officers to slosh back to the primary control room, lit by dim pink lights.  
  
“Status report, Mr. Insighty,” said Mr. Moody as he and Mr. Resolvey tried to pry Mr. Reflecty off the chadburn.  
  
Mr. Insighty flipped some switches and brought up a single screen that lit up his face in soft blue light. “We’re taking on Oblivion water, but it’s a slow gain,” relayed the function to the other officers. “Right now the pumps are keeping us afloat -- but we’re going down by the head. The soul habitat is undamaged and still powered. They might survive a little after the sinking.”  
  
“We can’t sink,” said Mr. Denialy. “We’re unsinkable!”  
  
“We can’t stay afloat!” Mr. Insighty stood aside for the other officers to examine the screen. A picture of Mohamara’s head and the ship showed red blinking sections an hourglass draining sand. “We’ve lost boiler room three, two of the three memory cargo bays, both forward engines, and we’re about to lose the imagination deck!”  
  
“What caused this?!” Mr. Memoryy, quite upset with the loss of two-thirds of his purview, cried out. He had abandoned his hat and pulled at the fur along his scalp. He turned to the charred cat on the floor, crouched down, and began to shake him. “This was you, wasn’t it?! That’s why you couldn’t shut down properly!”  
  
The other officers piled on Mr. Memoryy to pull him off the injured Mr. Reflecty. “Come on, old boy!” “He just did his job!” _”We’re unsinkable!_ ” “You’ll slow the regeneration!” “There are more important issues at present!”  
  
“Quiet!” Mr. Moody shouted at his fellow officers. “We need to power the transmitters and call for help,” he told them when they looked at him altogether. “This isn’t something we can fix on our own, we need time in drydock.”  
  
“We can call Mother--” Mr. Denialy’s suggestion was spoken seconds before another explosion shook through the ship-mind.  
  
“Boiler room’s one and four are gone!” Mr. Insighty’s declaration cemented the need to call for help. The ship couldn’t function off one boiler room, it wouldn’t be enough to keep the lights and engines on.  
  
“Mr. Communicationy,” Mr. Moody firmly asked, once the pile on Mr. Memoryy was removed. “Please go and call for help from anyone who can reach with minimal power.”  
  
The relevant officer nodded and ran off to his function’s section of the ship.  
  
\--  
  
[…](https://youtu.be/FxRN2nP_9dA?t=98)  
  
Realcatsarepink TO ALL STATIONS:  
CQD. SOS. CQD. SOS.  
  
Lovetowatchmeleave TO Realcatsarepink:  
WHAT IS THE MATTER?  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Realcatsarepink:  
WHAT IS THE MATTER?  
  
Realcatsarepink TO ALL STATIONS:  
CQD. SOS. CQD. SOS.  
  
Lovetowatchmeleave TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
I DON’T THINK HE CAN HEAR US.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Lovetowatchmeleave:  
I WILL TRY TRIANGULATING HIM. STANDBY.  
  
Lovetowatchmeleave TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
STANDING BY.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Blindedbythelight:  
EMERGENCY. RESPOND ASAP. EMERGENCY. RESPOND ASAP.  
  
Blindedbythelight TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
SIGNAL RECEIVED. WHAT IS THE MATTER?  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Blindedbythelight:  
YOUR SON IS SENDING CQD AND SOS. HE CANNOT HEAR ME. Lovetowatchmeleave AND I NEED YOUR HELP FOR TRIANGULATION.  
  
BlindedbytheLight TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
I CANNOT HEAR HIS BROADCAST.  
  
Realcatsarepink TO ALL STATIONS:  
CQD. SOS. CQD. SOS. WE ARE SINKING. HELP. TEN MILLION SOULS ABOARD.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Blindedbythelight:  
SAYS HE IS SINKING. GET CLOSER TO MAGNUS.  
  
Blindedbythelight TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
UNABLE TO COMPLY. Baddragondaddy’s BARRIER IN EFFECT.  
  
Firstoblivionbank TO Bigmamasgrouse/Blindedbythelight:  
WE ARE IN POSITION TO ASSIST. TRANSMIT TRIANGULATION.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Firstoblivionbank:  
UNDERSTOOD. THANK YOU.  
  
Blindedbythelight TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
NO, STOP.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Lovetowatchmeleave/Firstoblivionbank:  
PING.  
  
Lovetowatchmeleave TO Firstoblivionbank/Bigmamasgrouse:  
PING.  
  
Firstoblivionbank TO Lovetowatchmeleave/Bigmamasgrouse:  
PING.  
  
Realcatsarepink TO ALL STATIONS:  
CQD. SOS. CQD. SOS.  
  
Bigmamasgrouse TO Blindedbythelight:  
WHY?  
  
Blindedbythelight TO Bigmamasgrouse:  
THATS THE NEW CALLSIGN FOR xXxIdealMasterxXx.  
  
\--  
  
With the strength of a dragon god behind them, the Soul Cairn took the form of a skeletal whale. No longer merely a trap for lesser entities to wander into, now it could hunt on its own. How fortunate that something on the other side of Magnus had encountered a problem and was forced to land on the barrier. Foolishly, other beings with the intent of helping such a damaged et’Ada rather than abandoning it called out for help.  
  
The Soul Cairn drifted into the space around Magnus where the Daedra couldn’t approach due to the shredder-like barrier in place. Fragments of Azura on her passage into the immortal plane sated the hungry realm while it waited for the exact position of the damaged ancestor spirit.  
  
Once it had that position, all pretense was dropped.  
  
The skeletal whale swam through the waters of Oblivion and crested through the liminal barrier of Magnus. In its jaws it held a Dwemer airship, so small it appeared toy-like in its jaws. The pocket realm bit down on the crippled protoform realm and felt one tooth puncture through to the soul habitat. In Aetherius, the skeletal whale began to boil alive from the creatia difference, so it reversed position and dragged the damaged realm into Oblivion. Fortunately, the dying realm wouldn’t have much time to suffer from the creatia difference there, as the skeletal whale chomped down, broke the realm in two, and swallowed the half with the soul habitat first. Then it could pick at the other half and feed as it wished, as quickly as it wished.  
  
Which was, by mortal reckoning, slow.  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bet you thought I was done with the whales thing, huh?


	71. Syncretism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For today's chapter, the part of M'aiq the Liar will be voiced by Gilbert Gottfried.

  
\---  
**Chapter 71:** Syncretism.  
  
Half of a Dwemer airship plunged through the air and crashed into the desolate, stormy, and ruin-littered landscape of the Soul Cairn. From within the ruined vessel, sand poured like blood -- pure white to contrast the indigo-purple soil of the Cairn. Skeletal figures, their bones black, and their souls trapped as visible fire, began to rise from the dirt to approach the ruin. It had happened before -- they would swarm the defenders with raw numbers then process the souls within the habitat for the pleasure of the Cairn’s overlords.  
  
But they didn’t account for defenders that had no intention to fight.  
  
Dozens of functional Mohamaras were carried out of the wreck by the sand’s exsanguination. Workers with simple mental processes: See damage, repair it. See souls in need, provide service. See a mess, clean it up. When the Mohamaras looked upon the Soul Cairn, they were not terrified, they were not cowed. They saw there work that needed to be done. As one, those that had been swept out focused on the approaching undead with a red gleam in their eyes. The same red gleam appeared in the eyes of the crew of the ship as they exited the ship in response to the mental links between them.  
  
The undead approached them with weapons, magic, and hunger. And the Mohamaras approached them with brooms, superior programming, and certitude.  
  
A boneman, a bow-brandishing blasted skeleton fired an arrow at its new prey. But the withered ancient Nord arrow was plucked from the sky by a Mohamara that held a tray of food and two stick-utensils. “Please do not litter,” the Mohamara told the boneman as it passed the arrow to a janitorial Mohamara. “You are dead, and you must be mourned. We will mourn for you, and teach you to mourn for yourself.” The support Undead should really not have been on the front lines, as it was soon swarmed by cats half its height. “We will help you remember who you were.”  
  
When the wave of cats passed, there were no boneman ruins for the Masters to rebuild with, there was a Bosmer woman. She looked confused, particularly on the topic of where she was, though she didn’t resist a counselor Mohamara asking her to follow him so that they could help her adjust to the afterlife.  
  
High above, the Ideal Masters watched their carefully broken souls rebuilt one by one, and became concerned.  
  
\--  
  
When equal powers clashed, their true nature was revealed. The strain of fighting at their full potential left no room for deception. In this way, Miraak and Yagraz came to know one another.  
  
She was Maw-Wrath-Build. Teeth, anger, and the desire to improve upon what had come before. A devastating warrior, faster than Miraak, and the one around whom the world would be made to move.  
  
He was Allegiance-Guide-Overlord. The first, the archetype, to which all who followed were compared. Charismatic, intelligent, cunning, and filled with a desire to rule over all things. Superior in the thu’um, and a master mage, he was galled by Yagraz’s tenacity.  
  
After what seemed like weeks of constant fighting in the realm outside of time, the two Dragonborn sat across from each other. This was a routine of theirs. They would fight to a standstill, and then rest so that they could fight once more. They didn’t need to talk about it, the decision was reached mutually as they stood among the ruins of a once-towering pillar of Apocrypha.  
  
“Why do you fight me?” Miraak asked his opponent at last. He took off his gloves to allow him to pop his knuckles, and to show that his hands were calloused and scarred from work. No pampered brat was he. “You fight for a goal, but not my destruction. I am but a stepping stone to you.” There was no bitterness in the sonorous voice. “To what am I a stepping stone?”  
  
Yagraz sat on a ruin of an archway made of books and congealed oil. Volendrung pulsed bloody red, finally awake from the glorious combat it was used for. She bandaged up some wounds that had been inflicted by Miraak’s sword so that her ring of regeneration could more quickly heal her. “I could ask the same of you. But I will do you the courtesy of answering before I fire your question back at you.” The Orc woman sat up straight and stretched out her neck. “I defeat you, the Skaal are in my debt, I ask for the secrets they keep from Hermaeus Mora, and he gives me the knowledge I want. Then to save my friend.” She looked upon Miraak’s mask for a moment before she curled her lip and continued. “And you using those people for your worship is disgusting.”  
  
“I find your casual murdering of anyone who takes up arms against you disgusting.” Miraak sat down near his sword, stabbed point first into the ground. “I use the people, not for worship, but labor. Worship requires them to know me, and they _do not_.”  
  
“Labor, for what purpose?” The Orc’s eyebrow was so arched it could almost pass as angular.  
  
Miraak pushed upon his lower back and stretched to produce a series of deep popping noises. “To return to Mundus, and assume my rightful mantle as lord of that world.”  
  
Yagraz snorted. “Going to have a tough time of that, lots of strong people out there to fight you.” She narrowed her eyes at the Nord. “And I don’t think you have it in you to control the whole world at once with your mind-control powers.”  
  
“I don’t intend to control them all.” Miraak spread his arms wide in some grand gesture Yagraz didn’t know the significance of. “I don’t intend to control them at all, not with that Shout. Such a state of slavery I reserve for the dragons.” The Nord transitioned his gesture into a dramatic point toward the sky where a scaleless dragon flew in the distance. “Look at that, a mockery of them, crafted by Hermaeus Mora and myself. A spin on Molag Bal’s Titan, made from dragons and Daedric vestiges. They, too, are slaves.”  
  
Yagraz nodded, in understanding. “I get it,” she told him, honestly. “The dragon cult was… fucked up. And the dragons who took part in it deserve what you want to give them.” She stood up and hefted Volendrung into the ready position. “But have you considered how much _like_ them you sound?”  
  
Miraak donned his gloves, stood as well, and pulled his sword from the ground. “On occasion. The other Dragonborn of Nirn visit sometimes, and often they ask me to reflect.” The knife blade morphed and became a slamming tentacle. “Typical Elves.”  
  
The time for words had passed, and the battle was joined.  
  
\--  
  
The Lakeview settlement was developing nicely. Situated on the road from Riverwood to Falkreath, it stood to grow into a prosperous city on a trade route from Western Cyrodiil to Whiterun. The townspeople had nothing but good things to say about Mohamara, who had given them the money to purchase the land after Helgen was no more. The was the small problem of Pinewatch, the local bandit den, but Marcurio made short work of them when he visited the settlement. Marcurio made an experiment of it: What would bandits do when presented with a man who could command dragons to do as he wished?  
  
If anyone in attendance had guessed ‘bitch their faces right off’, then they would have won a septim.  
  
With the Brotherhood subcontracted to the Penitus Oculatus, and his payment to them sorted out, Marcurio had to move on to the next phase of his plan: Pen a letter to the Emperor Titus Mede II.  
  
The people of Lakeview had built a house for Mohamara to stay in. A small thing, one room, with a simple straw bed, a desk, and a fire pit. A cozy little cottage. Marcurio had picked the lock and hidden away in there to compose the letter’s final draft away from Maro and his son Gaius.  
  
Gaius had, thankfully, taken after his mother and become a sweetheart. But he didn’t recognize Marcurio when the two had talked. That said a lot about the Maro heir, in the Tullius heir’s mind. It wouldn’t have been a terrible setup, but Gaius was oblivious to anything not job-related.  
  
A sudden vibration from the slate Mohamara had given him piqued his interest. Had Yagraz finished her work and could collaborate? It did not appear so as there was a message from a stranger.  
  
HOWDOYOULIKEMENOW?!: Hey son, me and some friends need to swing on by for a talk with you. Is now a good time to chat?  
  
Marcurio put aside his quill and responded with a polite inquiry as to who the mysterious number was. The answer, somehow, didn’t surprise him. Perhaps he was immune to surprise these days. He was directed to a shrine in the mountains near Helgen’s ruins where the ‘swing on by’ meeting would take place. It was simple to ditch the Penitus Oculatus when he could just fly higher than their arrows could reach.  
  
He stumbled upon a shrine to Talos, where a congregation was in prayer. A Thalmor Justicar lurked nearby, unseen to the worshippers, but clear as day to Marcurio with the bird’s eye view. One ice spike to the brain stem resolved the problem before it started, and Marcurio set foot on the hidden shrine to Talos of Atmora.  
  
“Um,” started the priest of Talos as Marcurio walked past them to stand in front of the statue. “Where did you come from?”  
  
“My mother,” Marcurio said in reply without looking at the man. “Now hush, I have a meeting with your boss.”  
  
“Sir, I have no idea what you’re referring to, but--” The priest’s speech ceased as he gasped.  
  
The statue of Talos, in his winged helmet, moved. His stone head shifted to either side like he was stretching his neck. Talos’ chiseled hands left the hilt of his sword as he moved and actually popped his shoulders. “Sorry, boy,” the divine statue spoke in a lazy drawl. “A few hundred years in one pose gives ya mighty stiff shoulders. You’ll know how it is when they build statues of you.”  
  
The Talos worshippers, upon having their god’s statue come to life, prostrated themselves.  
  
Marcurio arched a brow and crossed his arms. “We’ll see. Where are the others?”  
  
Talos leaned on his sword hilt and tipped his winged helmet back slightly. “Look up.”  
  
In the sky was a cloud that had sculpted itself into the vague shape of half a man, with the sun behind it enough to resemble eyes. A change in the wind brought a strange cocktail of smells -- cherries, oranges, and grapes -- and with it a cathay Khajiit that walked over the Thalmor corpse to arrive as well.  
  
“M’aiq greets you,” the Khajiit said.  
  
“As does Vehk,” responded a cultured voice from above.  
  
The worshippers at Talos’ temple, caught in the middle, tried to remain hidden from the awareness of the divine beings.  
  
“You know damn well who I am,” Talos added in and stood up. “Now, you’re wanting to pull out all the stops on making that wife-stealing--”  
  
“Husband stealing,” M’aiq gently corrected.  
  
“Husband stealing bint pay. I respect that.” The stone god tipped his helmet to Marcurio. There actually wasn’t any hair underneath, he’d detached the entire top of his skull to make the gesture. “But you might wanna shelve it for now.”  
  
Marcurio narrowed his eyes and touched the half of Mohamara’s Eye he had under his robes. “What’s changed?”  
  
“Sheogorath has crossed a line,” Vek chimed in. “He has done great and terrible evil, and must be disciplined for his actions.” The cloud seemed to shift and focused on the cathay. “The Nerevarine will confront Sheogorath as one Hero of the Third Era to another, and retrieve the missing piece to that amplification artifact.”  
  
Marcurio held up his hands. “Hold up, _what_ did Sheogorath do? Is Mohamara okay?”  
  
“No,” all three answered together.  
  
“My dear nephew is being leeched of his divine powers,” the cloud Vehk said, solemn. “I have experienced it, it isn’t pleasant. Less so when there are souls dependent on you.”  
  
“Skooma Cat reinforces ja’khajiit’s capture,” M’aiq added, as he casually lifted a coin purse from one of the kneeling worshippers. He didn’t take the coins, just the pouch, which he fit over one of his hands like an impromptu mitten. Then he went in search of a matching coin purse mitten. “And chained words together to act as a terrible weapon. The mind, like glass, breaks when struck.”  
  
A sudden memory of the shouting he and his father would get into surfaced in Marcurio. He recalled that one of the General’s friends had suggested something similar to what the Nerevarine -- that was something he would gush over later, in private -- had described. “And I thought I wanted Sheogorath dead before…”  
  
“Want him dead as much as you like, there’s a better way to get vengeance on him,” Talos spoke up. “But while M’aiq gets that doo-dad back for ya, I’m going to be slowing down the Thalmor trying to get at… what was its name again?” The stone man looked up to the clouds, bashful at his poor memory.  
  
“To speak its name in our present state is unwise,” said the clouds. “But while they scour the ocean floor for the remains, we will act.” The clouds rumbled as if they were a thunderhead. “While they do their tasks, I will lessen the burden upon you and the time streamer. The clouds were swept by wind, as the figure pointed to the north. “Three scrolls, are needed. Blood will be reclaimed soon, and Sun is reclaimed already. But Dragon must also be reclaimed. Hermaeus Mora would stay your feet if you went in search of it, but I will occupy his time.” The wind shifted, and it seemed like the clouds were again in the shape of a man. “Seek Tower Mzark. It will open for you, who can be any shape you desire.”  
  
“I propose a different plan,” Marcurio said after a moment’s pause. “We all get together and kick the shit out of Sheogorath rather than set up for a long-winded adventure that has a lot of moving parts and will likely fail because Sheogorath loves drama.”  
  
The three divinities looked at each other, then the mortal, and amongst themselves once more.  
  
“Khajiit likes that plan,” M’aiq said with his new pair of mittens on display.  
  
“Been ages since I beat the shit outta a Daedra straight up,” Talos added.  
  
“As much as I too love drama, I want to see Sheogorath suffer more,” Vivec concluded. “We’ll sort out the elder scrolls and golem later -- let us become fast friends in the best way. By putting the boots to a clown.”  
  
“Khajiit will go borrow Azura’s clown kicking boots real quick!” M’aiq added as he trotted away. He trod on the Thalmor corpse once more as he left.  
  
“Damnit, I can’t fit Mara’s clown kicking boots,” Talos complained and slapped the hilt of his sword.  
  
“The best thing about detachable feet,” Vivec chimed in, “is that I can just swap my foot size for something more appropriate. I’ll be back, need to get Clavicus’ clown kicking boots.”  
\--  
  
Once, the chantry of Auri-El had been a sanctuary for the Snow Elves. Once a small community of theirs stood a real chance of rebuilding their civilization. Once, the secret valley hidden in the Druadach Mountains was a place of impeccable beauty and peace. Once, the nominal lord of the chantry had known similar peace.  
  
But no more.  
  
“Would you _get out_ and _stay out_?!” The outraged shout from the ruins of Auri-El’s inner sanctum was accompanied by a gust of freezing wind. The long abandoned halls were coated in fresh ice and snow -- a product of the magic used to dissuade the invader.  
  
Said invader was a golden-skinned High Elf in robes of delicate pink who cartwheeled between two gusts of magical icy wind as if he knew the exact amount of safe space between the two frost effects.  
  
The one whose home was invaded was an ancient thing -- skin and hair of icy white, clad in armor of moonstone and ebony in the usual Elven style but of superior make. The barest hint of fang indicated his beastly nature, as did his golden eyes. But his rampant temper tantrum revealed his childish and petulant nature more.  
  
“Hold still so I can kill you properly!”  
  
“Learn to lead your shots!” The High Elf replied as he span in place, dodged many icy spears in so doing, then dropped into a split to dodge two more. He rose up and somehow walked backward while his legs seemed to be walking forward.  
  
This confused the angry home defender so much that he let out an inarticulate Shout. “ **Faas Ru Maar!** ”  
  
To Shout fear into someone is a powerful tool. Less so when that someone can create a physical barrier through Alteration. The High Elf’s use of that technique both ruined the Snow Elf’s floor and blocked his Shout at the same time. “Vyrthur! I just need to consult you about something!”  
  
The Snow Elf, Vyrthur, narrowed his eyes and lowered his hands. “What do you need this time, you foolish boy?”  
  
“My god’s been kidnapped and I need your help to rescue him.” The High Elf peaked around his barrier but yanked his head back as Vyrthur shot an icy spear at his face. “Neloth said you might know what to do!”  
  
Vyrthur paused, his expression locked in a pure visage of ‘what the fuck’, and absently shot at the High Elf again once he peaked out. “Why in the frozen pits of the Deadlands would Neloth advise you to come to _me_ for help? And how could a god be kidnapped?!”  
  
“Neloth’s smarter than I am, I just figured he was giving me a hint,” he ducked out quickly enough to throw a dagger at Vyrthur, then ducked back. “And he manifested physically after our Caller summoned him!”  
  
Vyrthur had never known the High Elf -- Orthorn, he suddenly remembered the boy’s name -- to lie. He considered this as he inspected the dagger that had lodged itself in his exposed bicep -- that portion of his armor had broken apart centuries ago. It was a blade that was hollow in the middle, with a crossguard of gold in the shape of a sunburst around a gap where some spherical object could be inserted. Solar iconography was rare, incredibly rare, known only in the worship of Magnus and one other divinity.  
  
The Snow Elf, in his home invasion rage, connected two dots when he looked at the sunburst in the dagger and considered the phrase ‘manifested physically’. With sudden speed from sliding along the ice, Vyrthur came around to Orthorn’s side and held the weapon in his armored fist. “This blade -- you crafted it at your god’s bidding?”  
  
Orthorn shook his head and held up a red crystal sphere. “The Master’s gifts to us let us summon them from his power.” The High Elf demonstrated the technique and created another dagger around his crystal.  
  
Vyrthur scowled and looked away from Orthorn. “So he’s finally back on Mundus is he…?” Without looking, Vyrthur grabbed Orthorn by the neck of his robes and dragged him along through the chantry’s sanctuary. “In what condition was he when you first summoned him?”  
  
Orthorn, taller than Vyrthur, had to lean down as the Snow Elf pulled him along. “Um. Bound and gagged? The others had to finagle with whatever was binding him to get him loose.”  
  
Vyrthur stopped again and grew pensive. “Bound and gagged… could that have been why he…? But who--” He released Orthorn, turned, snapped his fingers in the High Elf’s face, and pointed at his nose. “The Alessian Order. It happened during the Middle Dawn -- of course, they’re responsible for it.”  
  
“Um.” Orthorn had gone cross-eyed a little to focus on the finger pointed at him. “Responsible for what?”  
  
“Nevermind, boy.” Once more Vyrthur grabbed Orthorn and pulled him along. “I need you to go kill the frost giant behind that hidden door,” the Snow Elf pointed with Orthorn’s dagger at a section of the wall. “It has a key to a door we will need to open. I will retrieve the bow, and we will see _this fixed_.”  
  
“Hah!” Orthorn did a ridiculous dance once Vyrthur tossed him toward the ‘hidden door’. “I knew you could help!”  
  
“Yes yes, I’ll help, but hurry and kill that giant. I’ve done my waiting for this meeting, and I won’t hesitate to leave you behind if you slow me down!”  
  
\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cheydinhal is really close to Morrowind. Marcurio had a Dunmer nanny who told him about all the good that the Nerevarine did in Morrowind before the Oblivion Crisis. He’s something of a fan.


	72. Moon Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remember that scene in Dumbo where Mrs. Jumbo rocks Dumbo for a few minutes while in solitary? Now you do!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually write good dads, but Mohamara's a good dad.

  
\---  
**Chapter 72:** Moon madness.  
  
Jone was crying.  
  
Momamama had been gone for days, and Ada-nana had been covering herself in Momamama’s blankets so Jone would think she was Momamama and sleep through the night. But he was instinctively aware something wasn’t right. Jode had tried to reassure him, but that had only worsened his doubts. After a couple days, Momamama’s blankets didn’t smell enough like him to fool Jone’s nose.  
  
Momamama’s friends had taken good care of them. Baishi and her mama had been great company, even if the big cat wouldn’t let Jode play on the ice. But Jone was a huge crybaby in Jode’s opinion, and desperately wanted Momamama back. She wanted him back too, but she knew that the mean elves kept Momamama away. She was afraid Jone would think he’d been abandoned.  
  
Momamama didn’t know, but Jode had been picking up on Momamama’s dreams -- or perhaps, memories? Some of them taught her how to do things, like how to fly, and speak. She had made the mistake of going too far in Momamama’s memories, to when he was small like Jode and her twin. When Momamama was small, like Jone was, he’d been left crying and no one came. Eventually, he just stopped trying. She didn’t want that to happen to Jone.  
  
For a little while, their uncle had come to see them and it helped Jone forget for a little bit. Their uncle Moremouse was a big man with two sets of ears, one set of which were hard, pointy, and white. Uncle Moremouse also had wings and had tickled both kittens with his shed feathers. But he couldn’t stay long, and when he was gone Jone went back to crying.  
  
Jone wasn’t like Jode, he had been growing slower. He couldn’t even talk! No one but Jode and Momamama knew what the Khajiit kitten wanted at a given moment because only they could speak in the secret god languages. J’zargo had been back on his feet for a day before he had to go look after the other people in Winterhold -- the ones who the mean elves wanted to beat up. Yehochanan could only help if he knew what Jone wanted. Thus the task fell to Jode to serve as translator.  
  
It grew tiring after a while. The thoughts and emotions of a toddler weren’t easily translated.  
  
So while Jone cried in the middle of the night, Jode laid down on him in an effort to offer comfort to her twin. In the heavens above, the big moon passed in front of the little moon in an eclipse.  
  
\--  
  
_In the darkest times, hope is something you give yourself._  
  
It was something Kore had told him when they first met. She had found him on the road back to the college and had surprising empathy for someone who claimed to be the only survivor of their group of friends. He’d had no hope that he could move on from the loss, or that he deserved to move on at all. Perhaps that was what led to their relationship, despite the differences between them in personality.  
  
In hindsight, Savos realized he had confused a romantic relationship with a cathartic one.  
  
Kore and her three sabre cats made short work of anything that harassed them through the snows of Winterhold, the Pale, and Hjaalmarch. They had to approach the ruined city of Bromjunaar from the north, where her walls didn’t stand against them, for sake of speed. Savos avoided squabbling with her since she had the manslaying beasts with her. For whatever reason, she avoided quarreling with him as well.  
  
With the peculiar enchantments she was able to work, they seemed to be able to travel the weeks normally needed to cross so much frozen wasteland in days, and stood before the Tribune of Labyrinthian. There, Savos got a grim reminder of what had happened.  
  
He, Kore, and her cats watched as specters of a younger Savos and his friends appeared on the same landing where they stood. For her, it was likely a glimpse into how Savos had been before they met. For Savos, it was like a sledgehammer had been taken to the wall he’d built up around those traumatic memories. The ghosts spoke about how confident most of them had been, Takes-In-Light and Elvali had been hesitant. But the rest of them had all but bullied them into going inside.  
  
He’d almost turned around and abandoned the task assigned to him. But his ex-wife and her three deadly predator minions drove him back into the temple of Bromjunaar without mercy. Inside, the ruins were exactly as Savos had remembered them. Including the room where all the skeletons patrolled.  
  
It was a huge cavernous room, the burial chamber for the last dragon to rule Bromjunaar, Durnehviir. Though there was an additional skeleton that hadn’t been there before. Savos could tell because it had the scraps of a blue robe and hood around its shoulders. The ancient Dunmer knew instinctively who that skeleton belonged to.  
  
With a Master-class Restoration mage and three powerful cats to back him up, Savos didn’t need to do much to destroy the skeletons, except the last one. Savos had taken it apart carefully without disrupting the energies that maintained it. Difficult work, but he whittled the skeletal undead down to a skull. A skull which he picked up and held in his hands at eye level. “Hello Girduin,” the Arch-Mage said with sorrow.  
  
To his surprise, the skull returned the greeting. “Hello, Savos. It’s good to see you.” Once, Girduin had been a Bosmer who wanted to study the magic of sculpting faces. But he had died in Bromjunaar, the first casualty of their expedition, mauled by the skeletal remains of Durnehviir come to life. “Been a while.”  
  
“Three hundred years and change, yes.” Savos stared into the elven skull, for there was nothing left of Girduin’s eyes to meet. “I’m sorry. I should have come back for you sooner--”  
  
“Shut up.” Girduin clacked his teeth in agitation. “I forgave you a long time ago. You didn’t kill me, Savos, my ambition did. Are you here to free us, or to reminisce?”  
  
Savos looked over his shoulder to Kore, but she was busy healing her sabre cat minions. “Yes, I’m here to free you all. One of the gods commanded me to do so.”  
  
“Lie,” Kore said from her place among the sabre cats. “Llorona never commanded you to do this. Llorona said that your friends deserved to rest. You filled in the blanks.” She looked over her shoulder at Savos and Girduin’s skull. “I read the transcript.”  
  
Savos frowned but didn’t refute her.  
  
“Believe it or not, that makes me feel a lot better,” Girduin’s skull commented. “Being commanded by the gods is one thing. That you immediately came to the conclusion to come help us given a vague comment from a god is something else.” The skull’s jaw clacked against itself. “The others might not be so forgiving -- I don’t know how they died. But I hope they can forgive you.”  
  
\--  
  
Things weren’t going well for the bow of the ship that was Mohamara. Without the soul habitat, the ship was working on emergency power while being flooded with the waters of Oblivion. The officers desperately tried to compartmentalize further to keep the sinking to a slow doom, but there was only so much that could be done.  
  
Every so often, the attacking realm would swing by and rupture a compartment, flooding the interior and boiling alive the subordinate functions that were consumed by the water. The officers had saved all the Mohamaras they could and drawn them to the mind chamber, to wait for the end.  
  
During the time between the attacking realm’s swipes, there was only the music of one entertainment Mohamara, sawing away at a violin. He played a somber melody that would have been well received in better times but seemed like salt in the wound when his audience got to watch their doom inch closer. Nearer my God to thee.  
  
Mr. Moody on occasion would activate the viewing window to see what had changed outside. Sheogorath seemed to have left, but the damage was done. With an active assailant, and no dry dock in sight, the officers had to hope that the subordinate functions in the soul habitat could pull perform a miracle.  
  
Mr. Denialy scoffed at the notion. “Without us, they won’t know what to do. They don’t have the procedures in place.” He sat down on the catwalk, as it rested at a gentle incline toward the murky waters that occupied the far end of the chamber.  
  
The subordinate functions in attendance gave the officer a dirty look.  
  
Mr. Optimismy had his focus on Mr. Reflecty’s injuries, so he did not rebuke the denial officer’s sentiment. It went against his prioritization, but the Padomaic mist in the air let him ignore prioritization just a bit -- they needed reflection to get past their current troubles.  
  
So it fell to Mr. Moody to speak for the silent functions again. “Trust in them. Trust in their prioritization. They have what they need to build a tertiary control room where we can regenerate.” However awful it would be, it was better for them that the soul habitat had been swallowed with only a puncture. If the bow had been swallowed first, the heart chamber wouldn’t be able to pump out the water. The souls would have quickly drowned.  
  
He had left the visual feed on as he’d turned to speak to Mr. Denialy, and this proved to be opportune. As it caught a scene play out that the officers desperately needed to see.  
  
“You have visitors,” said a snooty High Elf voice, followed by the creak of the cell door.  
  
All the major and subordinate functions turned to the screen to watch the feet of their children’s wet nurse, Jo’leen, enter their field of vision. Their ears picked up as one when they heard a sound that triggered emergency prioritization: Jone sniffling, about to cry.  
  
“Oh, ja’khajiit,” Jo’leen said, and reached down to lift the primary platform’s chin up. “What have they done to you?”  
  
The pink and green had begun to leak out of Mohamara and the Orchendor platform. The Orchendor platform’s presence was how they had maintained so much of their functions despite the extensive damage -- the tapeworm-born tojay could help to bolster their efficiency. But neither platform had been fit for sustained movement, and couldn’t do so with the system shut down.  
  
Jode sat on Jo’leen’s shoulder, then crawled down the cathay-raht’s arm. Poor Baishi had taken one look at Mohamara and hid in her mother’s hair, but the Big Moon hadn’t the luxury.  
  
“Momamama?” Jode’s question had a degree of emotional fragility that the mental functions struggled to listen to. “Wake up.” The Big Moon passed out of their vision, but they felt her walk onto the Mohamara platform’s shoulder, then headbutt her father’s cheek. “Wake up....”  
  
Jone started crying, and Jo’leen had to let go to comfort him. The lack of support sent their field of vision right back to the floor.  
  
Mr. Moody, without consulting the other officers, raced for the chadburns. It was Mr. Resolvey, Mr. Pessimismy, and Mr. Humory who tackled him before he could start the ship again. “What are you doing?!” “If we power up now, we’ll sink _faster_!” “Hahahaha, this isn’t funny at all!”  
  
“Shh, shh, little one. Your mamapapa’s right here.” Jo’leen set the crying baby in their limited field of view. He looked so cute in his sunshine yellow onesie, and he could sit on his own! For a moment the functions forgot the encroaching water and were so happy. That happiness turned to ash when they saw their toddler reaching out to them, obviously he wanted to be held.  
  
Mr. Moody struggled under the weight of three other major functions. “We have to do _something!_ It’s our prime directive!”  
  
Their daughter tried to make muffins on their shoulder, she tried to purr to get her father to purr. But she was a little girl too -- far more developed than Jone, but still too young to fully understand a catatonic parent. When Mohamara couldn’t respond, she tried the same with the Orchendor platform. But that platform was as immobile as the Mohamara unit. She too started to sniffle, the situation just a _tad_ too much.  
  
“If we power up, the system will crash!” Mr. Pessimismy sobbed. “But if we don’t power up our babies will be crying! We’ll be as _bad as them!_ ”  
  
That shook the other functions, even Mr. Denialy, out of their stupor.  
  
“No,” said the subordinate functions as one. “Even if it costs us our life. We will be better than they were. We won’t lie about loving our children.”  
  
That was the unfortunate consensus that the subordinate and major functions had reached. Every time Meridia or Sheogorath had said that they’d loved Mohamara, or that they even cared about Mohamara, they’d been lying. The love implied in their name ‘Mohamara’ was a lie, too. With the risk of being made liars on the table, the subordinate functions swarmed the officers. Mr. Moody was free to go to each chadburn and move them to ‘emergency startup’.  
  
The pistons, some fully submerged, some half, and some only barely touched by the water, began to move. Boiling Padomaic waters ate at the Anuic constructs. The pistons began to visibly corrode as they worked, getting the lights on just in time for the whole bow of the ship to begin shaking.  
  
**”Warning, system crash.”** The automated voice of the First Servitor came through the inter-ship speakers where there was still air. Accompanying the warning was an alarm siren to indicate the ship was on its last legs.  
  
Outside, Mohamara’s vacant eyes lit up just a smidge. He and Orchendor briefly rose to awareness to find one of their children near each of them. Orchendor, on his side, enveloped his alfiq daughter in a hug and drew her close. Mohamara had to reach forward to pick Jone up and bring the wailing babe in for a hug.  
  
Jo’leen wasn’t convinced that Ri’saad’s ja’khajiit was still in those heads of theirs. Their eyes weren’t glossy anymore, but their jaws were still slack and their tails listless. To her, it seemed that the crying children had awoken the physical caretaker instincts present in all Khajiit when presented with ma’khajiit. Even declawed cats had them. She held Baishi close and hoped to Khenarthi that she was never in such a position.  
  
Inside the mind of a Khajiit god, the water rose quickly. Two pistons broke under the strain of movement. Mr. Denialy was the first major function to be lost to the encroaching waves. He did his job up to the last moment, as he boiled in the Oblivion water, denying that it had happened.  
  
_”We’re unsinkable!”_  
  
Mr. Optimismy and Mr. Reflecty were the next to go, and they faced it like gentlecats. The searing water rose up over them, boiled them alive, and they didn’t say a word about the pain. So too passed the subordinate and remaining major functions, until only Mr. Moody remained at the chadburns. The water had stopped.  
  
Mr. Moody could only see the Padomaic creatures that his friends had become dimly by the light of the viewscreen. They looked up at him, their eyes shone like lamps in the water, but they dared not come out to grab him.  
  
With a shudder and a groan, the ship’s lights shorted out, as did the viewing screen. The pistons stopped their movement. Mr. Moody could only guess as to the reason why -- perhaps the other realm had tired of playing, and finally swallowed them whole? Perhaps the emergency power had finally run out.  
  
Either way, Mr. Moody was left as the last survivor in a metal coffin, with the knowledge that his doom lay mere inches from his feet. But he didn’t regret it at all.  
  
\--  
  
Meridia stormed through her throne room, in the shape of a Colovian woman, bald with hair of shaped light, and a dress all the colors of her rainbow. Minor Daedra lept from her path as she left a trail of burning creatia behind her, where her chamberlain followed. Through Rooms she moved, until she came to the outermost Room. The Orange Room, whose name meant ‘Where Stands the Vanguard’. Defenders of Meridia’s realm, champions of her faith, those who would be sent to aid in her mortal’s affairs when needed -- these were the occupants of the Orange Room. The Orange Room was the outer crust of her realm, a tropical-colored cityscape heavy in shield iconography and replete with eternal soldiers.  
  
And they couldn’t do anything to help in the current context.  
  
She’d needed to see them fail. They launched themselves from the outer surface of the Colored Rooms toward Magnus and the Soul Cairn. But every time the wretched barrier of Akatosh’s make would block their approach. By her will, the weapons of the Orange Room were brought to bear, and fired upon the whale-like realm. Statues launched lances of thought, Daedric spells fired from massive staves, trebuchets were loaded into catapults and fired en masse. Meridia stood on the roof of the palace-temple dedicated to her, and leaned on a balcony to watch the attempts.  
  
Distance began to matter near Magnus, so the Soul Cairn had plenty of time to avoid her shots. She could keep the beast away from her son’s realm, but anything beyond that was impossible. Meridia was the strongest of all the Daedric Princes, but she couldn’t blast through Akatosh’s influence, it seemed.  
  
A series of chimes precipitated Shalidor receiving a message on his micro-slate, which he then put away in his coat. “My Lady,” Shalidor, attempted to get her attention.  
  
She ignored him and brought more of the Red Room’s arsenal to bear in suppressing fire. It was only when one of her weapons struck her son’s realm and seemed to deal a fatal blow that she stopped. Perhaps her plan hadn’t been wise at all.  
  
“My Lady,” Shalidor attempted again. “You have a message from the Shivering Isles.” The Nord stood straight-backed and unafraid as the angry Daedra whirled on him. “Not from Lord Sheogorath, from your daughters.” He pulled a folded envelope and cleared his throat. “What the fuck are you doing, stop. You’re too big to fit through the gaps, stop. We’ll go in and try to help, stop. We’re not using that stupid broadcast thing you and Kyne do, stop. We just want to use this opportunity to make your minion tell you to stop over and over, stop. Best wishes, the stop brigade.” Shalidor’s delivery was monotone, professional, and not in any way amused by the antics of his Lady’s quarter-million daughters.  
  
Meridia sighed, looked at the smoldering hole she’d punched in her son’s realm, and visibly sagged. “They can proceed.” She didn’t want to be bitter about her daughters getting involved in their brother’s life to help save it. But she was bitter, just a bit. Because once again she wanted her way to be the right way, even if it wasn’t what her son needed. “I think I’m not very good at being a parent.”  
  
Shalidor, professional that he was, replied diplomatically. “Fortunately, your wife Kyne is. Simply defer to her judgment until you learn better, my Lady.”  
  
The Lady of Infinite Energies smacked her chamberlain upside his head while she watched an almost literal wave of small lights swarm toward Magnus, too small for the barrier to catch them.  
  
\---  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, hi Savos!


	73. Llarona

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For today's snip, the part of M'aiq the Liar will be played by Mikhail Gorbachev.

 

\---

**Chapter 73:** Llorona.

 

“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Thalmor Justicars didn’t seem to grasp basic responses that fell outside what they wished to here.

 

Traynda had little time for it. She was a turn away from the Master’s house, with the food they needed for the week ahead. Then, as she came back from the general store with the vital supplies, a Thalmor came to her and propositioned her.

 

“I mean ‘no’,” the Pink Coat said with her best ‘forced to be polite’ tone. She crossed her arms and opted to stand between the Justicar and the food supplies she’d been forced to put down due to the weight. “I’ve got no interest in ‘going into an alleyway’ and ‘chatting’ with you.”

 

The Thalmor, a High Elf woman who clearly had some well-hidden Wood Elf ancestry, seemed taken aback. “Um.” The Elven supremacist looked over her shoulder and then leaned down to whisper. “I wasn’t asking for _that_ , I meant truly talking. You’re a Daedra worshipper too, yeah? I just need someone to talk to….”

 

Traynda curled her lip. “Llorona hasn’t decided if he wants to be a Daedra or not yet. And I don’t _want_ to talk to you.” She sighed and picked up her pack of food. “But my God demands that I do so anyway. Which Daedra do you answer to?”

 

The Thalmor woman sighed, relieved. “I’m Zenolene, and I follow the Prince of Bargains.”

 

“Well, Zenolene, get your fat Thalmor ass in gear and let’s go.” Traynda had little time for a foolish elf and her foolish problems, but Llorona demanded she make time. So she would, even if she thought a Thalmor deserved to have no relief in spiritual matters. She’d killed enough Thalmor in Hammerfell, she didn’t want to kill more. But she would if needed.

 

Zenolene followed behind the Redguard, a bit pouty for having to follow behind someone ‘lesser’ than her, Traynda surmised. She obviously had expected something warmer in her reception given how gentle the Master was with people who didn’t deserve gentleness.

 

People like Traynda. The Redguard adjusted the heavy pack on her shoulders as she walked toward the Master’s house. He had to know what Traynda had done in the War, but he hadn’t chastised her for it. He hadn’t made an example of her as she expected.

 

When she got back into the house, the Master’s son was bawling again. Completely understandable, the wee babe didn’t know what kept his… mother, father? Parent. The babe didn’t know what kept his parent away, and really was too young to be without the Master for prolonged periods of time.

 

Traynda remembered, while she set down the pack and began to unload the food supplies, that children that young ran the risk of forgetting their parents if they were separated too long. Brenuin had the baby when Traynda last saw him, and she hoped that her friend would have the sense to keep him away from a Thalmor.

 

She set a tea brick on the table and set a pot of water above the fire to heat up. Without really looking at Zenolene, the Redguard woman pointed at the benches that flanked the table. “Sit, I will prepare tea. And you can start talking whenever.”

 

The Thalmor had to scoot the bench back to sit down it sounded like. Orthorn had the same problem, so they’d made him a chair at the end of the table. But the Thalmor likely thought that was the Master’s chair.

 

The Master’s chair had a booster seat in it, and he requested they hide it when not in use so people wouldn't make fun of him about it. As if anyone would come into the Master’s home, mock him for his height, and live long enough to laugh.

 

With fire magic and a barely controlled temper, the Redguard Pink Coat had a boiling kettle of water ready for the tea block shavings. She brought the kettle to the table, set it down and started on the tea prep. Knife, tea shavings, and that imitation moon sugar the Master had introduced to them -- it had single-handedly taken tea from a bitter experience to a drink worth looking forward to in Traynda’s opinion.

 

A shame it had to be shared with a Thalmor, though.

 

Zenolene took the cup offered her and let it cool before she took a sip. “This is good,” she commented, subdued.

 

“The point of this conversation, if you please?” The Redguard’s expression could be described, most generously, as controlled disgust. In her mind, the Thalmor had made her bed by enlisting with the Dominion’s ruling body. Any help she offered would just help the Thalmor kill more people.

 

Said Thalmor set the cup down and steepled her fingers. “I… want to leave the Thalmor. Leave the Dominion altogether.” She dared a glance up but looked back down when she saw Traynda’s look of disdain. “The things we’re being asked to do aren’t… right. They say the Thalmor are here to protect Aldmeri culture, but we’re just tearing down the cultures of others, not making ours any better.” The mixed-race Elf supported her head with her hands. “So many people died in the War, and the higher up I get in the organization the more I discover that what we were told about it was propaganda to serve as the Luminary’s self-aggrandizement.

 

“Then why did you join the Thalmor, if this is what they did?” The Redguard could barely contain her revulsion with the woman in front of her.

 

“I wouldn’t have if there was a choice.” The Thalmor shrugged. “Every male and female Altmer is required to enlist once they’re of age. Some of the old nobility are exempt because of medical issues -- terrible inbreeding went on before the Dominion took over Alinor, allegedly. Bone spurs are quite a common problem.” Zenolene took another sip from her drink. “I’ve been at this a long time -- I’m good at finding people who don’t want to be found. But I can’t think of a Daedra-damned reason to keep doing it anymore.”

 

Traynda took this all with a pinch of salt -- Thalmor were liars, after all. So rather than answer right away, she stood up and went into the house. The Master’s spider-crab was playing tag with Jode. She made sure to pet the little Khajiit a bit before she absconded with the spider-crab, and plopped it on the table in front of Zenolene. “If you could tell me whenever she lies, that would be wonderful.”

 

“What in Oblivion is that?” The Thalmor exclaimed when Yehochanan moved. “It’s like a Dwemer spider, but pink!”

 

The spider-crab clacked its claws. “And it remembers you,” he said, ominously. “Lie at your own peril.”

 

Traynda felt good that her Master’s minion had a similar level of distrust for the Thalmor, and it allowed her to be more pleasant in the further discussions. Not actually pleasant, mind, but closer to it.

\--

 

Marcurio found in Solitude a madman who desperately wanted to meet his master, as Talos had told him he would. Then he obtained a hip bone which would allow him to get into Sheogorath’s ‘vacation suite’.

 

It was trivial to get into the Blue Palace. He seriously considered robbing them blind because their guards were so monstrously incompetent. Sneaking into the closed-off Pelagius wing took a bit more work -- the locks on those doors were actually worth a damn. But locks worth a damn still only kept him out for so long. Then it was a simple matter of finding the right spot inside the abandoned wing for Sheogorath to become interested.

 

It was as he was checking out Pelagius’ bath chambers, luxurious and never used.

 

Suddenly Marcurio found himself in a misty grove of trees, the landscape rocky and treacherous like the Reach. Sheogorath sat on one side of a banquet table, opposite a blond Nord man in quilted clothes of exquisite make. Marcurio recognized him immediately as Emperor Pelagius III, his mother had a bust of the man in their summer home that Marcurio defaced with an ink mustache once.

 

That didn’t matter in the current context. What mattered was that Sheogorath was there, in whatever physical capacity a Daedra could manage, and it was time.

 

“More tea, Pelly my dear?” Sheogorath asked before a flaming dragon-sized dog launched him across the rocky ground. “Ohoho! The son-in-law wants to wrestle! How delightfully inappropriate! Pelly, quick, get the oil!” The Mad God seemed to have a gay old time as he held the jaws of fiery doom away from his stupid face.

 

All he needed to do was to get the Mad God’s _complete, undivided_ attention for one moment. A terrifying prospect in and of itself, but made more so with the knowledge that Sheogorath could rewind the timeline and do this over again as many times as he wanted.

 

Marcurio, with half the Eye, could become anything. So when his fiery dog form didn’t get the Mad God’s attention, he shifted into a form that would. The fire that his dog form was constructed of swirled and revealed a more diminutive shape -- a tojay Khajiit which both god and man knew well.

 

Sheogorath’s smile vanished in an instant. His voice ceased to be amused and carried the low tone of menace that seemed to coincide with his malicious behavior. “Using my boy’s face without permission, son-in-law? That’s a paddlin’, that is.” The Mad God stood like Marcurio weighed nothing, and the shapeshifted man scurried away. “Now this is going to hurt you a lot more than it’s going to hurt--”

 

Sheogorath was interrupted by another Khajiit, a cathay, in simple monk robes but wearing spiked high-heeled shoes -- who promptly kicked the Daedra in the side of the head. Sheogorath went skidding along the ground and exploded a tree on impact. “Drop the seeming,” M’aiq told Marcuiro. “Before the Aurbis begins to pressure you.”

 

The Imperial didn’t need telling twice -- he could feel some sort of fog in his head over his memories before he dropped his fiance's shape -- and retreated to a safer distance to await the arrival of Vivec and Talos. He hid behind the table, near where Pelagius sat. The old Emperor muttered about how much better assassins were in his time, but otherwise didn’t intervene.

 

Wood particles hung in the air, the air hung in the air, hair air in the hung. Words became difficult to string together even in thought space as Sheo-Sheggo-Skooma-rathcat stood up from his impact site with a chunk of his face missing. Like a shattered mask, Sheogorath’s face seemed wrapped around a feline figure -- hooded and with one bloodshot eye visible. It was peculiar to see-watch-feel-comprehend that Sheogorath’s seemingly human ear and a cat ear on the same side were both visible.

 

“Wow, rude,” spoke Mad God and a second voice -- that of a woman. “You come into my friend’s home and kick me in the face? How dare you insult my friend -- go and kick Pelly’s face before I get upset.”

 

Instead, M’aiq ran up and kicked Sheogorath again in the same spot. More of his Nord mask broke off and more of the hooded Khajiit was revealed.

 

Marcurio didn’t know what to make of the development, but he figured if he did, he would go insane.

 

“It’s a nice day today,” M’aiq announced while he posed in Azura’s clown kicking boots. “The sun is shining.”

 

Space distorted, and a barely dressed Elf with half their skin the color of gold, and the other half Dunmer ash tones. Vivec had arrived and sported curly-toed boots covered in spikes. “Birds are singing,” the warrior-poet said as he floated, cross-legged, next to M’aiq.

 

“On days like this,” came a voice that preceded a sword thrust through the air. As if space was a curtain that could be cut, the sword carved a hole through which a vaguely Nord man stepped through.

 

Marcurio presumed him to be Talos -- given that the almost-Nord wore spiked boots that were laced up to his thighs -- but didn’t say anything. The strange man had Nord features but an almost Elven touch of femininity to his features.

 

“Clowns like you should be bleeding on the ground!” All three of the angry gods charged Sheogorath and began to kick at him with their clown kicking shoes. As he was kicked, the Mad God’s noises seemed to indicate he found the experience amusing as well as painful. He would offer critique on how best to kick him, and where to aim. It seemed he aimed to take the fun out of retributive violence by expressing a masochistic side to himself.

 

However, one thing made the whole endeavor worthwhile for Marcurio. And that was when a well-placed kick from M’aiq knocked something golden and red from the Mad God’s pocket. The half of the Eye that had been stolen!

 

Marcurio caught it before it could touch the ground, automatically drew out the half he possessed to recombine them. They were like two magnets -- once in the proximity of each other, they tore free of Marcurio’s hands to recombine as if they had never been broken. As had happened with Alduin before, an outline of glowing pink surrounded the Imperial. He didn’t quite feel a difference in metaphysical power but surmised that there was one. So he decided to test it.

 

He wanted to make some clown-kicking boots of his own to join the others in exacting justice upon Sheogorath. His primal desire for _vengeance_ called out to him to make Sheogorath _suffer_ for what he had done. But he remembered how Mohamara had pleaded with him for mercy in the case of Karliah. And he remembered then that Mohamara himself was at risk. So he used an illusion spell, Clairvoyance, in conjunction with the wondrous power of the Eye to test his new power.

 

The eye floated up on its own and tilted slightly in the air. An illusory copy of Mohamara’s head formed around the Eye, with the artifact placed in Mohamara’s formerly empty socket relative to the rest of him. The illusion was made of pink, green, and blue light that formed a hollow, translucent image. But it wasn’t just an image, it could speak.

 

_”Reasons ignored, no longer caring… how long it may take, just to mend the heartbreak. Lost and unsure, the boy is fading….”_ The illusion of Mohamara head spoke with a lyrical bent, while a faint memory of a melancholy duet of a flute and keyboard instrument came to Marcurio’s mind. _”A distant fragment of nobody important….”_ It sighed, illusory face set in a despairing expression. _”Wishing for a warmth found in memories distant….”_

 

He decided, resolute, that there were things more important than vengeance. Elenwen’s destruction was cemented -- a waiting game was all that was left. Sheogorath had gotten a reprisal for his behavior, no matter how frivolous the Mad God found it. Marcurio had the full splendor of the Eye once more -- the time to pussyfoot around was passed. He recalled something about Tower Mzark and a need for an Elder Scroll inside, but that was on the way to Winterhold -- he could grab it no problem, he reasoned.

 

All while he stood silent, contemplating these things, the clown-kicking continued in the background. Ebony black blood leaked out of the abused Daedra of Madness, the only sign that he truly suffered damage from the kicking as otherwise, he seemed to find it of great amusement.

 

“You call that breaking my arms?! You wouldn’t know how to break an arm if -- **augh, my arms!** ”

 

\--

 

Clad in golden light, three Thalmor scoured the ocean floor. Elenwen had the staff, overflowing with resplendent power -- wasted on a beast. They had drunk deep of the divine power but made sure to leave enough for their plans and more. None of them had the full power of a god yet -- but they had more than enough power to move through the water with extreme speed and no fear of drowning.

 

A fourteen square mile area wasn’t quickly searched even by demigods.

 

Ancano found it first and caught the other’s attention via a flare. Once Elenwen and Ondolemar were with him, there was little difficulty in finding all the pieces and putting their prize back together. Nearby whale carcasses provided what they needed to further work on their prize, to the point where it was able to stand on its own.

 

Elenwen sculpted its flesh of mudstone to fill the gaps, while Ondolemar aligned the bones in its hands for proper strength. Ancano worked on finding where the connectors for the device’s previous power source had been -- and how to adapt them to something new. He was promptly eaten by an eel and made a subject of waterlogged laughter from his fellow Thalmor before he remembered he had magic. After he had burned his way out of the eel, he remembered he had the powers of a demigod and needn’t have been in that position at all.

 

It was quite disheartening. Almost as much as when they couldn’t find the heart. Without the heart, they would need a new power source for the golem. While the three of them dragged their prize through the water behind them, they discussed options. The divine kittens were discounted as being too unstable -- they each got a massive influx of faith from Khajiit all across the continent, but their specific power levels were thought to shift according to the phases of the moons.

 

Mohamara himself was pitched, as his limited faith intake would allow him some power, and he conveniently had two bodies they could pull parts from to fit the gap caused by the missing heart. But Elenwen shot it down.

 

“We will drink from his power until we can break through to heaven,” she declared while she brandished the staff Sunna’rah like a royal scepter. “Using the golem to tear down what few towers remain will take time -- which we can use to ensure a fitting place for us to spend eternity.”

 

Which then brought up Ancano’s suggestion: The Eye of Magnus. They would just need to move it from Saarthal, and establish a connection to the golem, and the power output would be enough to at least start their endeavor. This was agreed to by the other Thalmor demigods.

 

So when they arrived at Winterhold, they had a plan, but they also had a show to put on. Those who didn’t know better would see their prize rise from the ocean and think: “Huh, a giant man-shaped statue that has bits of Dwemer metal on it in places. That must be the Numidium!”

 

But they were foolish, for the weapon they had risen wasn’t a tower in its own right as Anumidum was. It was the maddened experiment of a dreaming god. It was the tool the Thalmor would use to tear down Snow Throat and Ada-Mantia.

 

Akulakhan.

 

\--

 

The Ideal Masters were positively panicking. In the space where they convened, it took the form of a darkened room with an oblong table, and they had gathered to discuss their newest acquisition. They had gobbled up realms before -- but none had tried to eat them back.

 

At one end of the table, a dour-faced man in pressed black robes over fabric-of-gold gestured to a projection illusion and spoke in a monotone drawl. “As you can see from this graph, our newest property has yet to become profitable. In fact, we are experiencing major losses that as of now we cannot recoup.” He circled areas of the chart that indicated profits generated versus investment, and the results were poor, to say the least. The emotionless man made no expression as he turned to look at the other expressionless people. “I’m open to suggestions.”

 

“We must increase our production to meet the needs of this investment,” spoke a severe, older woman with lacy black robes and a glowing green stone about her neck. “Ten million souls is too much potential growth to abandon due to a minor inconvenience.”

 

A murmur of agreement accompanied the woman’s words.

 

“Production increases would, of course, mean an increase to magicka expenditure,” said an oily-haired man with a hook nose and disdainful sneer. “We already need to expend a considerable sum to damage all the repaired souls the investment has done. Not to mention to break all that it has fixed.”

 

“If worse comes to worst we can always simply rewind,” added a stylish man who was only human from the waist up. He rolled around on a complex chair of wheels and steam in the Dwemer style. “Not like he can do anything to us, huh?”

 

The men and women of the Ideal Masters shared a laugh, stiff and wheezy.

 

“Any luck in processing our previous acquisition? Perhaps we can use his devouring powers to better combat these gnats?”

 

The presenting man changed his graph to an image of a disembodied cloud of swirling gases. “Alduin’s soul is resisting our attempts to process it -- we need time to develop specialized equipment for this one, as our previous equipment from the Durnehviir acquisition isn’t sufficient.”

 

The talks then went into ways they could improve upon their tools to break Alduin -- despair was clearly not going to cut it, but the possibility of inducing schizophrenia upon the World-Eater’s psyche was bandied about.

 

“Wait -- the body!” The woman in black lace suddenly stood. “We can use it to create a new minion that will be able to at least stymie the containment breach!”

 

Her fellow Ideal Masters saw the possibilities as she did, and the presenter changed his visual illusion to an overhead panoramic shot of where Alduin’s body had been discarded. All the cheer, such as it was, in the room melted when they saw the pink horde scurrying over the World-Eater’s bones and broken scales. The situation had officially gone too far beyond acceptable for them to leave it alone.

 

However, they became even more alarmed as the lights for their meeting area lit up. Immediately the Ideal Masters threw their metaphysical hands over their conceptual eyes.

 

“What’s happened?” The presenter drawled while his eyes became red and inflamed. He attempted to solve the issue with some eye drops but the liquid boiled before he could use it.

 

“They repaired the lights,” responded the oily-haired man while he looked around.

 

“What do you mean they’ve repaired the lights?!” The elderly woman in black lace. “They’re just subordinate functions, they can’t affect complex repairs! They’d need a major function to coordinate!”

 

As if it had waited for her to speak, a soft blue glow appeared on the illusionary display of Alduin’s bones where the invading cats had clustered. While their eyes adjusted to suddenly having lights, the Ideal Masters looked at the development with horror.

 

\--

 

That which was damaged, they would repair. So much about the new environment was damaged, however, that they needed a major function to coordinate and prioritize repairs. But they didn’t have the tools to create a major function. But they did have the tools to create that which created major functions: An aspect.

 

Discarded bones and scales were the base from which they began to build the aspect. Slats from the damaged ship were used to fill the gaps too small for the bones of a dragon god. A skull was formed from compressed sugar and then came the issue of organs and skin.

 

To do that, they needed a tool that was hidden away in an isolated section of the damaged realm. Three enforcement platforms with a format designation ‘Keeper’ kept the isolation in effect. They were the souls of giants, easily rebuilt given their simplicity. The vampire inside the containment zone was another beast entirely.

 

But she soon became distracted with a dragon soul that seemed to have an issue with her -- for the two quickly came to blows. That suited the subordinate functions just fine, as they were able to acquire the tool -- which named itself Blood. With Blood, they could reactivate the Life sphere long enough to beget regeneration through Rebirth and format the new aspect.

 

What woke up in the shadow of the airship wreck was a celestial blue cat with plates of acid-splashed dragon scales along his back, tail, the backs of his ears, and around his eyes. Eyes that were pastel pink and lime green, matched to his stripes. While he yawned from the sleep of non-existence, two subordinate functions screwed Dwemer metal spikes into his jaw to act like sabre fangs.

 

“You are functional?” One of the subordinate functions asked while it shone a light into the aspect’s eyes. “Hmm, a slight delay in dilation. The nervous system might need to be tweaked.”

 

The blue cat stood, on shaky legs, and noted that the situation he found himself didn’t seem to match what his memory told him he’d been doing last. “Um. Sure, do that if it helps, but where am I? Why is everything so purple?!” He glanced downward and promptly became bashful despite being literally surrounded by duplicates of himself. “And where are my trousers?! Okay, before you tweak my nervous system, someone find me some trousers! I’d settle for smallclothes!”

 

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blue cat get!
> 
>  
> 
> The floating Moha-head's lines are a reference to Lizz Robinett's lyrics for Roxas' theme, check it out!
> 
>  
> 
> Also consider checking out this strawpoll! https://www.strawpoll.me/17158666/r


	74. When you Believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Faith is a powerful thing. And that's why it's dangerous.

  
\---  
**Chapter 74:** When you Believe.  
  
J’zargo’s purpose was to extol the glory of the blessed one, to advocate for him, to bear his banner to victory and to sing of his praise. He didn’t expect the blessed one to actually _enjoy_ all of those things, but it was because of J’zargo that the blessed one did not starve to death.  
  
He went out among the oppressed mages and natives of Winterhold and saw to their welfare. When they needed food, he went out into the sea and dragged a whale carcass onto the docks to feed them. When they were cold, J’zargo would show them how to spin soul gems into thread and knit warmth into their clothes. And when Thalmor pricks decided not to take ‘no’ for an answer on certain matters, J’zargo parted their heads from their shoulders. The blessed one had provided a sharp ebony ax for that purpose -- perfectly sized for J’zargo!  
  
But early on, he encountered someone who needed to hear the blessed one’s glories more than any other: the blessed one’s elder brother.  
  
They were both Ada and could slip into the ephemeral realms of thought, dream, and emotion that wafted above the heads of mortals and there speak of many things.  
  
The breath-of-Kyne, huge in the reckoning of mortals, was sculpted of small emotions: curiosity, fear, and worry. “I appear to have come at a bad time to meet my brother.”  
  
J’zargo swole with the blessed one’s love and confidence, it washed down upon mortals in a wave of good feelings they couldn’t place. “There is no good or bad time, only the beginning. The blessed one will love you for loving the little ones so quickly upon meeting them. He is much afraid of his sisters for their reaction to the kittens. I am a piece of him, and through me, he has met you.”  
  
The legendary hero sampled J’zargo’s confidence and found it palatable, so he absorbed it to make himself larger. “I don’t think it’ll be quite the same if I squeeze-hug you and chat about our moms.”  
  
J’zargo was effulgent and caused sudden eye pain in several mortals for a few minutes. “No, but I can tell you exactly the pounds per square inch for your hugs to be vice-like without actually damaging the blessed one!”  
  
Such began a short conversation where the blessed one’s brother asked many questions about the blessed one -- mostly related to what he liked or didn’t, J’zargo expected it to be for a birthday present. However, something shifted in the talks as non-time went on. As they were both Ada they could feel the goings-on in the immortal plane, specifically how the blessed one’s realm had departed from it violently.  
  
J’zargo couldn’t act in his master’s defense in that case -- he was a slave to his function. The blessed one had made him to proclaim glory in the mortal world, and even in the face of calamity, he had to abide by that limitation. But the blessed one’s brother was not.  
  
\--  
  
The second Vyrthur had come through the black book with Orthorn, he was on the trail in pursuit of the meeting he’d anticipated for time immemorial. Orthorn, of course, chattered incessantly while they marched through the streets of some unimportant Nord city.  
  
“Did you see those other Dragonborn fighting?” Orthorn asked the shorter elf while they both walked through the labyrinth of alleys, streets, and paths. Nord cities always looked so drearily uniform, difficult to navigate by sight alone. “Wasn’t that epic to see?” The fool boy had eyes bright with excitement like he was a child in awe of some new toy. “That sword that could become a tentacle -- the way Yagraz just blinked out of existence!”  
  
“They weren’t fighting,” Vyrthur corrected him with an offhand gesture. Once he had seen a Thalmor soldier in their golden armor, it was paltry for his Illusion magic to weave a lie of Altmeri structure around him. The only flaw would be in his shortness. They gave the Falmer in disguise and the pink-coated Altmer little more than a glance. “They were flirting. Live a couple hundred years, see a war or two, and you will learn to tell the difference.”  
  
Something was wrong. The bow, and the shield, held by Vyrthur and Orthorn respectively, weren’t responded as they used to when Vyrthur would receive an audience. They would light up, gleeful at their master’s presence -- but they seemed to dim as the elves carried them through the city. Vyrthur noticed that their light seemed to drift in a particular direction. His thoughts on the topic were soon put to an abrupt end.  
  
“So were you flirting with me, back at your place?”  
  
Orthorn’s perfectly innocent question stopped Vyrthur’s train of thought. It stopped Vyrthur in his tracks so that Orthorn bodily walked into him. If only it also stopped people from commenting on the situation.  
  
A Thalmor soldier, face heavy with scars, heard them and called over. “Hey, you heard the orders! No fraternization with the locals until their genealogy is confirmed! Even if they’re blokes!”  
  
Vyrthur silenced Orthorn with a glare over his shoulder, then resumed on their journey through the city. While Orthorn stopped them to help random strangers on the path, Vyrthur examined the artifacts more and pondered.  
  
What would he say, when Vyrthur found him? Would the distant god apologize? Would he chide Vyrthur for the loss of faith? A pit of icy despair crept into Vyrthur’s stomach while he clenched his hands around the bow which had slain a god. Would Vyrthur be rejected for the lives he had taken, when his rage had gotten the better of him?  
  
While he gripped the bow, there was a sudden flash of light that blinded Vyrthur. He stepped back, stunned, and held a hand over his eyes. But while his face stung with pain, a sudden wave of emotion washed over him. He felt confidence from everywhere and nowhere, love swelled in his heart that filled his mind with memories of his brother, his parents, and the disconnected voice which once spoke to him.  
  
A more perfect omen he couldn’t have asked for. Perhaps the god had been as lonely as he, locked away by the Alessians.  
  
“...Are you crying?” Orthorn suddenly asked him.  
  
Vrythur forced his eyes open to look at the concerned High Elf. He scowled and shoved the taller man away when he got too close. “Of course not, cur. The bow suddenly flashed, it hurt my eyes! Now come on, we have to keep moving.” Vyrthur honestly didn’t know if he had been telling the truth, but he knew he couldn’t admit weakness. Strength was part of his name in the language of dragons -- he could not bear to be seen as weak.  
  
\--  
  
Apocrypha quaked with the strength of their clash. Yagraz and Miraak seemed perfectly equal, each unable to gain and maintain an advantage. They met close to a hundred times, locked weapons in the domain of memory and knowledge. Yagraz had known for a long time that there was no end in sight, that Miraak could fight her to a standstill, and she could do the same for him.  
  
So while they fought, they talked. It had ceased to be a real fight between two people intent on killing each other, and thus the fight become a spar. The minor shift in their effort still rattled the Daedric plane.  
  
“...And then, after I make my speech, he just….” Yagraz laughed while she spun Volendrung around in a circle to deflect incoming spells then thrust the spiked hammer into Miraak’s gut. “Started bawling his eyes out. It didn’t take long to figure out why after he started hugging me -- the poor guy had two-thirds of his tail missing.”  
  
Miraak hissed in pain, sympathy for the subject of Yagraz’s tale. “Losing part of the spine always hurts the worst out of any injury. And you said the boy is a Clever Man? Unused to such pain, I expect.” The first Dragonborn stabbed his sword at Yagraz, and it became as a tentacle, wrapped around the hilt of Volendrung to throw the weapon and its wielder a great distance.  
  
Yagraz flipped in the air and landed with ease. The red shoes enchantment had put in a lot of work -- though she still didn’t know who needed help in Apocrypha. “Hup! Well, he broke his leg once, but I don’t _think_ it’s the same? Maybe in the pain ballpark? I’m guessing you’ve had it happen to you?”  
  
Miraak nodded, and sent a wave of icy magic at Yagraz before he swung his tentacle sword in anticipation of the Orc’s evasion.  
  
She surprised him by blowing through the wave with her Thu’um. Yagraz put her superior speed to use, and dashed around the battlefield, serpentine in her path, to close the gap and lash out at Miraak. However, he used a wall of ice spell to create a pillar beneath his feet and escape her.  
  
“All I will say is that the dragons like to play with their food.” A lull had become necessary, lest they both become weak enough for Mora to toy with. To demonstrate his acceptance of the rest period, Miraak sat down upon the ice pillar with his legs over the side. “Have you considered my offer?”  
  
Yagraz shrugged and yanked Volendrung free of the ice. “Forcing the Skaal to tell me their secrets is dishonorable. Stealing is dishonorable, too. And breaking an agreement I’ve already made is dishonorable.”  
  
“Even if the Daedra involved has no honor to speak of?”  
  
Yagraz shook her head. “Even if he doesn’t, I do.” She planted the spiked head of Volendrung into the oily stones beneath her feet and leaned on it. “So do you have any honorable ways to end this conflict?”  
  
Miraak scoffed. “You Elves and your codes of honor. Fine, let me think.” He assumed many thinkers poses over the course of an hour and had no results to show for his deep thoughts.  
  
“Not so easy to get out of the problem, is it?” The Orc grinned at the Nord and dodged when he lobbed a spike of ice at her. “Hee. Now, I have an idea.” She took an authoritative stance and began her pitch. “I help you come to Mundus, you agree to leave Solstheim alone in your plots for world conquest, I get the secret knowledge, you can _try_ to conquer the world, and everyone’s happy.”  
  
Miraak looked down at her, his face inscrutable due to his tentacle mask. “Why would you permit me to conquer the world? And why would I agree to leave Solstheim, mine by right, alone?”  
  
Yagraz arched a brow, and her grin faded. “Do you know how _big_ the world is? Solstheim’s barely visible on a map that shows the whole thing. And I know you can’t conquer all of it because, for all the advantages you have, other people have ways to counter them.” Yagraz began to count off reasons on her fingers. “You’ve got no army, and can’t pull enough Daedra from Mora to make one. Even if you could, people know how to fight Daedra armies now -- Argonia alone would kick your ass into your teeth.”  
  
“I saw that happen once,” Miraak commented as he shook his head. “Messy.”  
  
The Orc looked at him, bewildered. “You saw Argonia kick someone’s ass into their teeth?”  
  
Miraak nodded. “Dragons struggled against the beast races quite a bit. The Saxhleel taught them to be afraid of mortals in great numbers.”  
  
“Huh. Well, anyway. Your dragon slaves won’t be able to overpower the whole world on their own. And... you’re old.” Yagraz made a ‘what can you do’ gesture. “The world is too big, you’re too old, and your army is known and fallible. At best you might live to conquer Skyrim -- but good luck getting anywhere else.” Her delivery was flippant, objective, most damning of all, true. “The only thing you have going for you is your mind control -- and you already said you reserve that for dragons.”  
  
The first Dragonborn clenched his fists on his thighs, and his shoulders shook with some barely contained emotion. “So, my work, to see myself restored and my lordship secured… was wasted effort?”  
  
“Wasted in that it was not going to turn out how you wanted? Yes. But it made you stronger, gave you the drive to become smarter, and you even created a new type of Daedra.” Yagraz crossed her arms and waited for Miraak’s reply.  
  
It took him a considerable length to respond. So much that it was unclear on if he had fallen asleep or not. “I thank you for your honest assessment. But it is my nature to seek domination over others. I cannot turn from what I am.” He picked up his sword, and the pillar he sat with broke. When he landed on the ground, he didn’t move to attack Yagraz again, however. “But you have fought me to a standstill -- I cannot help but respect your power, and see it as a challenge.”  
  
Miraak extended his free hand to Yagraz.  
  
“I accept your terms.”  
  
\--  
  
“Alright, I’ve got trousers on. Now, why am I here?” The new aspect, without a name, emerged from behind a broken slab of Dwemer metal from the airship, half-dressed, and visibly annoyed. “And why is my _ship in pieces_?!”  
  
“Sheogorath induced a cascade systems failure,” one of the horde of subordinate functions informed the aspect, seated on rubble, the purple dirt, and the half-skeleton of Alduin. All of them had eyes only for the new aspect. “It um… then caused us to crash into Magnus, we began sinking, and after that the major functions compartmentalized.”  
  
The dragon-cat pinched his nose. Then he found he couldn’t as Alduin-like scales had grown along the bridge of his nose up to his scalp. “Of course he did. What caused the cascade systems failure?” The new aspect glowered at his subordinate functions and became increasingly agitated when none of them answered. His tail struck the ground and caused a terrible crash. “I’m waiting!”  
  
Another subordinate function spoke up, with his hard had held in front of him like a shield. “F-father informed us that Meridia was our biological mother… not just our adoptive one.”  
  
The new aspect froze. Then his head began to swell up as if he were a balloon. The subordinate functions swarmed him, in an attempt to alleviate the pressure before he decapitated himself. One of them jabbed the scroll of Blood into the aspect’s neck and twisted it like a wrench.  
  
“Oooh,’ the aspect groaned while his voice pitched back up from depths-of-Oblivion bass levels to his normal tone. His head began to shrink back to its original proportions. “Yep, that seems like something he’d drop on us.” Once the aspect was stable again, the subordinate functions retreated. The blue dragon-cat shook himself out, then twisted his neck manually to pop it twice on either side. “Okay, so that’s the how we got here answered. Now, where is here?”  
  
Metal on sand caught the aspect’s ears, and he turned to look at the wreck of the ship while his subordinate functions answered him.  
  
“We’re in an Oblivion demi-plane, maintained by a collective of mortal necromancers.”  
  
The aspect saw something glint in the darkness, crouched down, and reached out his hand to it. Qorach slithered from the darkness, and wrapped lovingly around his master’s arm as he made his way to the aspect’s neck. Once there the blue dragon-cat rubbed his head against Qorach’s and purred loudly.  
  
“It’s filled with undead and trapped souls -- but also in a state of almost purposeful disrepair. We’ve been repairing souls and the structures, but we need a major function to coordinate for the most effective repairs.” The subordinate functions shrank down as one as if they expected to be yelled at. “And… all of the major functions are on the other half of the ship.”  
  
“Master,” Qorach said. “Things on Mundus are spiraling out of control. You need to join with the others, post haste.” The flat-snake looked contrite as he became the center of attention. “Thalmor ambushed your other aspect and main identity.”  
  
The dragon-cat rubbed his temples since he couldn’t pinch the bridge of his nose anymore. “Alright, fine. Establishing contact with the major functions should be our first step, then we can see about getting our realm out of he--”  
  
He was cut off by a cry of alarm from the subordinate functions. When the new aspect turned to look at the source, he saw the bow of his realm fall from the blue and purple sky to crash on top of the aft section. A cloud of creatia dust, sugar sand, and a mist of Padomaic water rose up from the crash. Water poured from the wreck as if it had been raised from the ocean.  
  
“Or!” The new aspect roared, irate in a way that the subordinate functions had never experienced before. “Or! The other half could just smash into the ass of the damn thing! That’s fine too!” His fur puffed up around his scales, absolutely enraged. The dragon-cat’s tail lashed from side to side quickly while his ears flicked back. He snapped his fingers at the subordinate functions. “Get in there, get the major functions out here!” His breathing was unsteady as he watched the subordinate functions rush into the wreckage. “Why am I so pissed off?”  
  
“The emotion reservoir burst before we crashed,” one subordinate function stopped to answer. “And it mostly gathered in the aft since its heavier than the Oblivion waters. It could be that you are being affected by them?”  
  
The new aspect continued to act like a brat while his snake servitor wrapped around his neck in a snake-hug. “I want this anger aimed at Sheogorath. I want it aimed at Meridia. You guys haven’t done anything to earn the anger.” He gestured flippantly at the ruined Nordic buildings and the floating gems in the sky. “ _This shithole_ has done more to deserve it than you guys!”  
  
A diminutive female figure, as small as the aspect’s hand, appeared by his shoulder. She had the seeming of a human, but paler and seemed to glow with an inner light, that contrasted her otherwise dark clothes. From her back, insect wings sprouted from her back which allowed her to hover in place. “Hmm, you’re definitely one of Meridia’s kids,” she said in a high voice. “Got temper problems.”  
  
The aspect turned to look at her, disinterested, then looked away. Then he promptly whirled back to look at her. “What the -- a pixie?! Here?” He quickly rubbed his temples again and closed his eyes. “So much for the theory that you guys had Daedric vestiges instead of souls.” He looked at her with eyes open again and tried to appear pleasant. “Look, this place isn’t nice, so I’ll make sure there’s room for you and as many salvageable souls as possible once the ship is up and running again.”  
  
At that very moment, the bow of the ship began to roll off the stern, smashed the last intact engine, and continued to roll off into the distance.  
  
The pixie watched, then gave Mohamara’s aspect a disbelieving look. “That thing won’t ever fly again, kitty-cat.”  
  
“Now I know it looks like… that…” Anger had been replaced with sorrow in the new aspect’s voice and bearing. Wild mood swings on account of revelation-based trauma were to be expected, honestly. “But… with enough work and….” Confidence and the desire to appear respectable melted under the swing from anger to sadness. The dragon cat fell back onto his butt and sniffled loud. “I-I’m not even sad about how bad this hurt me, really. All those souls we’re looking after could be stuck here forever if we can’t get out….”  
  
A second pixie, in red clothes with hummingbird wings, joined the more gothic first pixie, looked at the near-crying aspect, then slapped the goth pixie in the back of the head. “We leave you alone with him for less than a minute and you bully him into crying!” She snarled, in a voice like a squeaky toy. “Ugh, you’re becoming more like mother every day!”  
  
The first pixie scoffed and looked away. “I, like, didn’t say anything to the crybaby.”  
  
Qorach hissed aggressively, and released a sort of whirring sound before the first pixie’s voice emanated from him, saying ‘that thing won’t ever fly again’ except it would replay repeatedly. Every time it did, the words distorted until it became ‘ _you_ will never fly again’.  
  
The goth pixie, on being shown the receipt, crossed her arms and looked away. Other Pixies seemed to appear from nowhere and rotated around them like a swarm.  
  
“Harlie! Stop being mean to baby bro!” “Look at him, he’s so cute!” “Oh my goodness he has mom’s fuzzy toes!” “Wait, I don’t think that’s him -- he’s supposed to be pink!” “An aspect! Oh neat! What’s your name, bro-aspect. Aspect-bro. Brospsect! There we go!”  
  
The dragon-cat screwed up his face as he listened to all the high-pitched voices talking. “I… don’t have one yet. I can’t talk to my other aspect and my core identity.” The sudden sadness seemed to fade, it was easier to fight the urge to break down bawling. “But my sympathetic bonds are pulling me toward a name, and I don’t think it’s right because it’s --”  
  
\--  
  
“-- Auri-El!” Vyrthur threw open the cell door where the pull of the bow and shield was strongest. Inside, he didn’t find whom he had expected. He expected a golden-skinned Aldmer, but instead, there were two Khajiit. One with fur the color of limes, and the other pale pink. They both seemed catatonic. And between them lay an elder scroll, which rattled on the ground.  
  
Orthorn appeared behind Vyrthur once the last of the Thalmor guards had met his dagger intimately. The High Elf hissed between his teeth, in sympathy. “Ooh, the Master doesn’t look good.”  
  
“Which one--” Vyrthur’s mind whirled at what he saw before him. It didn’t make sense, and yet, it did at the same time. The Khajiit had been able to track the time that had passed during the Middle Dawn -- perhaps because Auri-El had been forced into such a shape.  
  
“They both are. The Master got split apart a while ago, he said they’re the same person but different bodies, and they don’t quite act the same.”  
  
Vyrthur nodded, as that information worked with what he had speculated. “The Alessian Order was responsible for that, I think you’ll find.” He hesitantly stepped forward and bent down to touch the pink catatonic Khajiit. His vampiric nature could pick up a heartbeat. Faint, but still present.  
  
“The Alessian Order? But the Master said it was Peryite….” Orthorn pinched his chin, in deep thought, then looked back outside the cell. “We need to hurry, more Thalmor could show up any moment.”  
  
“They thought our influence was a disease,” Vyrthur snarled, as he quickly took the pink and green Khajiit into his arms. They were of the tojay morph -- small as children, but the holiest after the mane. It all made sense! “Of course they would invoke that weak spirit’s influence for their vile rituals.”  
  
“I think you might be slightly confused….” Orthorn muttered, with a sidelong glance.  
  
“No.” Vyrthur stood, with both small Khajiit held close to his heart. His expression was resolute, made near mad with how his vampire eyes gleamed. “For the first time in a long time, I think I’m seeing clearly.” His conviction only grew when the near-catatonic cats simultaneously reached out to hug him. The old vampire’s heart surged with pride -- his god remembered him, even diminished thus! “Did he have any holy artifact with him that were taken as well?”  
  
Orthorn looked down the hall in either direction, then scurried off. Vyrthur effortlessly carried the two cats with him as he followed after Orthorn. When he found the High Elf, the pink-coated man had found the contraband room in Winterhold’s midden, and held two items. An amulet where the focus was a faceted orb which shone with light, and a malachite sword of icy blue color.  
  
Vyrthur’s eyes locked on the weapon. “Chillrend!” His soft exclamation seemed to spark some bit of life in the two cats as he looked down at them. “You kept it… after all this time?”  
  
“Present…,” the pink cat replied. “From… an important person.”  
  
“Never leave it behind,” added the green. They both sounded listless, as if they had spoken in their sleep. Perhaps they were, gods were weird like that.  
  
Vyrthur couldn’t help tearing up at the answer and hugged them tighter. In that instant, all the pain and bitterness that had built up over millennia seemed to melt like the spring thaw. He suddenly had a vision of a wheel turning upon its side for a moment, and in a moment of perfect clarity, he believed a lie so emphatically that it became true.  
  
“You really are Auri-El. There’s no doubt about it now. You’re back… you’re back.” Vyrthur had to fight to keep from crying, such was his joy, his relief.  
  
“Aha!” Orthorn pointed at him, vindicated. “You’re crying! Which means you were crying earlier too! Neloth is never going to believe -- ackpth! Let go of my throat!”  
\---  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did you know Elder Scrolls had Pixies? Now you do!
> 
> Also legally obligated CHIM-chimminy CHIM-chimminy CHIM-CHIM cheroo.


	75. Gods save the cat.

\---  
Chapter 75: Gods save the cat.

“There’s a doorway to the Soul Cairn… in my father’s castle?”

Tolfdir looked up from his notes to glance at his travel companion’s face upon such a revelation. The Khajiit face had such bizarre ways of expressing surprise -- the positions of the ears, the fluffiness of the fur, the position of the head relative to the shoulders, these were the signs of Khajiit surprise. He made a point to write the information down, as an outsider’s perspective would always help those who read his book in the future.

“Yeah. And I would have just gone to deal with it myself, but it requires your blood.” Their benefactor, who had liberated them from prison, a minotaur that could speak -- how rare! -- had permitted the two cursed cats to ride on his shoulders while he made use of illegal flying magic.

The minotaur had a cape of feathers that resembled wings, horns like an aurochs, and black furry skin under ebony armor in a style Toldfir hadn’t seen before. He carried no weapon but had a hoop ring in his nose, which led Toldfir to guess that the man would fight with magic.

Serana seemed perplexed by the revelation. “But… my mother was the necromancer, and she couldn’t have created a portal to the Soul Cairn without him knowing!” She reclined against the man-bull’s head like it was the seat to a couch. “Do you realize how much she’d have bragged about something like that? No one’s created a portal to the Soul Cairn before!”

“And if this happened shortly before the Planemeld, it would have been a significant advantage,” Tolfdir added. “The Daedric Princes weren’t able to bring in huge forces due to the dragonfires, so the Ideal Masters could have flooded Skyrim with the undead to help Molag Bal’s efforts.”

Serana pointed at Tolfdir. “What he said!”

A sudden change in moisture prompted Tolfdir to glance down over the side of their minotaur associate. There he saw the coasts of Haafingar drift away from them -- they had started to fly over the open water. He consulted his notes and found that Volkihar castle was about three miles off the coast -- just barely in visible range. Apparently, it had once sat atop a hill and became an island as sea levels rose.

“I don’t know the history of the portal -- just what is needed to open it.” The minotaur the cursed cats flew upon huffed. “And where it is in relation to the rest of the castle. Fortunately -- right near an exterior wall so I can just bash my way in.”

“I don’t suppose,” Serana ground out, annoyed, “that my father would be thankful that you brought me back without the elder scroll. Or that he’d recognize me as a gods-damned Khajiit.” She pulled on her hair in frustration. “If I could just talk to him I could….”

“No, you could not,” Tolfdir interjected, and pointed at her with his pencil. “Everything you’ve told me about your father is that he is set in his ways, convinced he is right and utterly ruthless to that which has no use for him.” He endured her withering look with calm and poise. “And why would you even want to speak to him? If the portal requires your blood -- you don’t need him.”

“He’s still my father.”

Tolfdir nodded. “And he’s also a monster. Has he ever been convinced to do anything other than what he wanted to do?”

The vampire cat wilted a bit. “No.”

“And why is that?”

She wilted even further. “Because he wouldn’t listen to anyone else, and make token gestures of appeasement toward people he needed for his plans.”

Tolfdir put away his notebook and pencil, then climbed across the minotaur’s back to sit beside Serana. “If you want to speak to him, I will be there to back you up. Just don’t let him have a place of respect that he hasn’t earned.”

The minotaur huffed again. “What is it with Skyrim and bad parenting? The other provinces don’t have it this bad.”

Serana, seemingly lost in thought, automatically responded. “It must be the cold. Saps all the warmth from a family.”

\--

Auri-El, as Mohamara, had longed for siblings for a long time. A few of his foster siblings had been decent before they, like clockwork, became horrible. Yagraz had always described how her siblings annoyed her and spawned hilarity -- and he’d wanted that. However, when confronted with three-quarters of a million in sisters, he found the situation frighteningly similar to when he was carried about by tall-legged people, specifically Yagraz’s sisters. While his subordinate functions extracted the major functions from his wrecked ship, Auri-El’s sisters tossed him about between them in the midst of their swarm.

“Ooh, his fur is so soft in between the scales!”

“Ack, let go of my tail -- that hurts!”

“Wait, Dad said he could fly -- but he doesn’t have wings.”

“I use magic!”

“He doesn’t speak like a Khajiit….”

“My green aspect does! Ow! Talk to him if that’s what you want!” Auri-El was pulled from various directions by thousands of pixies and held aloft. They’d accidentally popped one of his shoulders out of its socket, earlier, which kept them from pulling too hard -- though that arm was in a sling provided by the same sisters that had injured it. “Are you all done?! Have you pulled enough of my fur out?! Has everyone commented on how my feet look like Meridia’s?!” The dragon-cat looked at the various pixies all around him, incensed.

One of his sisters, a small ice-themed pixie, cooed at the sight. “Aww, he looks so much like mother when he’s mad!”

Another sister, themed after fire, slapped the ice-themed sibling in the back of the head. “Don’t bring her up, ice-brain! He’s still mad at her for being stupid.”

A chain of head slaps and criticism soon developed until the whole swarm was too occupied with their infighting to restrain Auri-El anymore. He plopped onto the purple sand the demiplane was built on, and promptly stalked off to group with his subordinate functions.

They were wrestling a major function, Optimism according his uniform name tag, into submission. The rapid change from Anu to Padomay key had maddened the poor man, and given him the strength of ten skooma addicts. Auri-El pacified the officer by grabbing the elder scroll of Blood and smacking Optimism with it. Rendered nonfunctional by the blow, subordinate functions swarmed him to begin repairs.

“Damage report,” Auri-El demanded, imperious, as he brandished the elder scroll like a weapon.

A subordinate function from the soul habitat, dressed in butler’s livery, approached with a clipboard in his hands, and half-moon spectacles on his nose. “Damage report is as follows, sir. All engines are destroyed, boiler rooms one, three, and four are destroyed, and the superstructure is damaged beyond our ability to repair.”

Auri-El could tell that for himself, but it was part of the official report he’d asked for. So he refrained from eye rolling and instead passed Blood off to a subordinate function who needed it to repair Optimism. While he watched, two more major functions were forcibly extracted from the wreck.

“Following that, memory holds one and two were flooded, but have been cleaned up. The heart chamber sustained a direct blow from Daedric artillery and is only functioning at three percent capacity. The soul habitat is powered, but the exterior shell has multiple holes -- residents are being kept from the holes, but we are afraid some inactive souls have been spilled out.” The butler function delivered his report with stoic grace, even as lightning flashed and tormented souls were dragged away by other functions for immediate repair.

Auri-El rubbed his forehead to head off a headache which looked to sprout. The situation had gone to pot so quickly, and he was still so new, that he wasn’t convinced he could fix it without his other aspect and primary identity. “Order the divers to go out in search of potentially lost residents of the soul habitat, prioritize the debris field.”

The butler function nodded. “Aye, sir. In closing, there is a power leak of indeterminate origin which prevents us from effecting sweeping repairs -- and the system is locked in an emergency startup.” With his report concluded, he produced a notebook and pencil, meant for taking guest’s food orders, and wrote down the aspect’s orders. “Any further orders?”

The dragon-cat frowned and looked over the scene. With just himself, and the unreliable help of his sisters, he didn’t see a clear way out of the situation. He could call for help from Meridia or Sheogorath -- but they had gotten him into the mess he found himself, and he couldn’t ignore that enough to speak to them. But, he realized, there were others in the family he could ask. One, in particular, came to mind. Auri-El turned to the butler function and looked hesitant to speak, but spoke anyway. “Is there enough power to turn on the communication hub?”

The butler function arched a brow at him. “Of course sir, but our transmission range is limited.”

\--

A throne sat in a room of Dwemer metal, crafted from prismatic crystals that split the light which entered it. Fortunately, it was anchored to the floor so it hadn’t been damaged by the significant rolling that the bow had undergone. It was still at a forty-five-degree angle to the rest of the plane, but that was expected.

Auri-El, with help from a couple dozen of his sisters, navigated through the ship to the throne room and then struggled to sit in it while sideways. Once he got into a comfortable position, sitting on one of the armrests to the throne while the seat was pressed into his bad arm, he began fishing around for Mysticism links. This proved to be a mistake as he was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of damaged bonds from the rest of the ship. They flailed about like electric whips, desperate to find the connections for which they were intended.

He found that they operated on layers in the magical, timeless space, of Mysticism. It wasn’t something he could perceive before, but if he moved between the layers some of the bonds would not affect him. It was rather like an onion, Auri-El realized. Through layers of reality, he searched and found the mostly intact bonds for the throne’s operation.

“So, who you gonna call, baby bro?” One of Auri-El’s sisters, with her clothes styled after pigs and doughnuts, asked. She had some form of speech impediment where she snorted a lot in normal speech, but particularly when she laughed. “Ma? Pa?”

“I’m going up the chain of command from them,” he answered back, while the world swam away in a blur of color. When the world returned, it was in a room with no windows, constructed of stone that bore the semblance of the night sky -- blue, purple, and black, with millions of tiny pits from which faint light emerged. He was there on his throne, seated as was proper, but it was so large that his feet didn’t even reach over the end of the seat. And so tall that when he looked up at the top he could see the dimming of all light, that sought to reach down into him for having seen it.

Auri-El quickly scooted off the throne, and carefully navigated his way to the distant floor with only one functioning arm. Part of the wall bore the signs of a door -- a frame, a knob, and a keyhole -- except it had no hinges. When he tapped upon it, no sound was made. The knob was too high to reach, and the more he looked at it, the further away it seemed. So he quickly put one foot up to the door and imagined that he then stood on the floor. With a bit of practice, the dragon-cat walked up the stone door toward the keyhole. The pits on the stone seemed to grow as he drew closer -- from faint points of light to puddles of shining liquid, and then to expansive lakes.

It struck him that it wasn’t that they grew larger, he grew less. The further from the throne he went, the smaller he became. When he reached the keyhole at long last it loomed like the inverse of Snow-Throat -- a canyon that opened up to impenetrable darkness.

“Hey!” He shouted down through the keyhole, one hand cupped around his mouth to help make himself louder. “Is anyone there? I need to speak to Azura!”

But nobody came.

He called out again, but nobody came. He wondered if he could just fall through the keyhole, but stopped that train of thought. “If I get smaller when I’m away from the throne, I won’t come out the other side bigger than a speck of dust.” Little did he know, he was already at that size. Dejected, and without options, he turned to walk away when blinding light shone through the keyhole.

A radiance vaguely familiar to Auri-El, for it, stirred memories of his time atop the head of Meridia’s statue. Such memories were bitter poison when combined with the Daedra of Day’s lies.

“Go away, Meridia!” He shouted at the light. “I have nothing to say to you!”

The light dimmed and became soft orange in color. With a titanic sound of stone grinding on itself, the doorknob began to rotate. Soft orange light spilled into the room along the edges of the door. Where it touched the stone, it changed colors -- the pits of light faded and were replaced with long swaths of orange and red that radiated their own light.

“I said go away, Meridia!” But the impact of his shout was diminished as he tumbled off the door, grew in size as he went, and landed on the floor. On his bad arm no less. The door swung inward, and there stood a titanic figure for whom the passage was perfectly sized.

She had the seeming of a Dunmer woman of advanced age, dressed in a modest but well-tailored dress and with dusty pink hair -- as if she had been a redhead in her youth -- that reached to the floor. Certainly not Meridia.

Auri-El scrambled to sit, and then stand, with his ears folded back and his tail low. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were --”

“You’ve made it quite clear who you assumed me to be,” the stranger said with a clipped tone. She strode into the room, ponderously slow from the reckoning of the small cat. As she entered, the night sky that the stone had appeared totally shifted to the mix of hues present in the twilight. She turned away for a moment to close the door behind her with an exasperated huff. “You beckon for me, and then fail to show the proper respect -- even going so far as to mistake my identity.” Azura -- for who else could she be? -- glared down at the dragon-cat. “And you do so with an aspect, not your real face. A poor show for a would-be Prince of Oblivion.”

If he could choose to be smaller, Auri-El would. He wanted to get so small Azura would forget she had ever met him. But there were things more important than what he wanted. “I’m an aspect of Mohamara, you might know me from --”

“The love sphere, yes.” Azura seemed to lose more of her patience whenever she spoke. “I’m aware that you are the god of family. Is that meant to excuse your lack of respect?” She leaned back with a calculating look. “Or do you think that because you have my daughter’s name I will show you leniency?”

“No!” Auri-El tried to meet her eyes, but every time he did he saw the palpable disdain in her gaze and found his confidence burning away like it was made of paper. “I… came to ask for your help, your advice.”

There was a solid moment of silence. It ended with a disgusted sigh as Azura pinched the bridge of her nose and bowed her head. “What’s the problem?”

Auri-El could tell the meeting hadn’t gone in the direction hoped, but she hadn’t rejected the request yet. He swallowed and tried to stand up straight. “Um, my realm got severely damaged, beyond the point where I can repair it on my own. All the souls in my charge are at risk, and I need advice on how to proceed.”

“And why should I care that souls in your charge are at risk? Or that your realm is damaged?” Azura lifted her head and crossed her arms. “Meridia seems infatuated with you -- as does that usurper which has cursed me so. Speak to them if you require help.” She turned abruptly to leave and laid her hand upon the doorknob.

But in her words, Auri-El saw hope. From them, he guessed she was unaware of their relation -- perhaps he had been treated thus because she assumed him a stranger? Desperate, he lept on the assumption. “You should care because we’re family!” He actually raised his voice to Azura, and immediately regretted it.

She looked over her shoulder at him with boredom. “I’m a first-generation et’Ada, most ancestor spirits are related to me by sheer numbers -- you’ll have to do better than that.”

“N-no! I mean, Clavicus Vile once told me you were my grandmother!” He realized at that moment that, perhaps Clavicus had been lying as Sheogorath and Meridia had lied. The Prince of Bargains lost nothing for misleading Mohamara on that point.

Azura looked legitimately insulted for a moment before her expression shifted to calculating. “I suppose, from a certain point of view, I can be called Sheogorath’s mother. It was my idea, after all.” Her disdainful expression returned in full force when she met Auri-El’s eyes. “But I only have granddaughters descended from me. Certainly no grandsons.”

“From Meridia, right?” Auri-El tried to remain resolute in the face of Azura’s disdain but her intimidating size and how desperately he needed her help made him return to being a cringing little dragon-cat again. “I’m Meridia’s son by Sheogorath.”

Azura laughed. She laughed so hard that the stones rattled, and she soon doubled over from the strength of her amusement. When she finished she took her hand off the doorknob and turned to face Auri-El fully, and with a malevolent glare. “My daughter might be willful, but she would not fail to inform me of a son’s birth. If you were indeed my grandson, I would know you. And since I don’t, I can safely say you’re not.” She grinned suddenly, with teeth most unlike a Dunmer -- they seemed more fitting for a predatory fish. “But if you wish to make that claim, I can verify its validity or lack thereof here and now. Just place your hand into my mouth -- I will sample your blood, and if you aren’t descended from me I will take your hand to punish you for lying.”

Auri-El, certain in the strength of his claim, obediently held up his good hand. Even as he reached as high as he could, he barely came up to Azura’s ankle.

Azura was quick, like lightning. She bent down, took Auri-El’s arm at the bicep in between her saw-like teeth, and lifted him up into the air. The Mother Soul shook him around a bit to saw at his arm so that his blood flowed and dropped down onto her tongue.

After a few seconds, Azura’s teeth loosened their grip on Auri-El’s arm, and she flung him at the throne in the middle of the room. Her expression was one of confusion, disbelief, and shock. Auri-El’s guess seemed to have been right.

“You are my kin,” she said as if dazed. But quickly she shook herself out of the surprise. “It would seem I need to talk to my daughter about keeping secrets.”

“In the interest of keeping secrets,” Auri-El ventured as he tried to move his recently bitten arm and found that the ligaments had been sawn through. “I have some children of my own -- you’re a great-grandmother too.”

“And like that, I immediately like you more than any of your sisters. Even considering your severe lack of respect.”

\--

In the Soul Cairn meeting room, things had gone to pot dangerously fast. The Ideal Masters had abandoned their presentation to pile chairs, the table, and the dead potted plants in front of the door to the conference room. All of the Masters that had legs held the door against regular attempts to batter it down.

It was frankly pathetic, given that the Masters were a bunch of old, sickly, or scrawny necromancers and the people trying to batter the door down were cats half the size of a man, and pixies small as a hand with a ladder as their battering ram.

“I told you we should have had locks,” said the one Ideal Master not able to contribute to the defense of the boardroom. He had no legs and rolled around with his torso and arms attached to a wheelchair. “We wouldn’t have to deal with these sorta situations!”

“That would require expending magicka!” Another Ideal Master, a near-skeletal figure in a red cloak. “And hang that!”

“Well if we’re lucky, they’ll hang us!” The half-a-man Master sighed, wistfully. “I miss hanging people.”

They continued to snipe at each other while the attempts to bash down the door proceeded. However, after several near failures of the barricade, the attempts stopped altogether. A bald Tsaesci Man in smoked glasses dared abandon the barricade to look through the gap in the door to see what developments had come to pass.

“Good news,” the man growled. “They’ve left.” There was a collective sigh of relief. “Bad news. There’s a minotaur out there now.”

They collectively had a moment to rethink their decisions in unlife before a bellowing moo and thunderous stomps echoed down the hall. With a mighty crash, the doors were torn off their hinges, the barricade was scattered, and the Ideal Masters launched clear into the opposite wall.

A black-furred minotaur, in ebony armor styled after an Akaviri animated show, with a cape of feathers and two small Khajiit on his shoulder and head glowered at the Masters, then stomped into the room. “Greetings,” he said with feigned politeness. “I’m Morihaus. You beat up my little brother. So Imma beat you up. Any volunteers?”

\---


	76. Together Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're nearing on the end -- don't forget to vote in the strawpoll if you haven't already! https://www.strawpoll.me/17158666/

 ---

**Chapter 76:** Together Again

 

To say that Yagraz was upset with recent developments would be similar to describing the Throat of the World as ‘a rock’.  When she heard from Mora the absolute utter _fucking nonsense_ that had happened while she was off-plane, Yagraz breathed fire for a solid minute onto the very first thing that looked at her funny -- one of Mora’s Seekers.

 

So when she stepped out of Apocrypha with Miraak behind her, she was pissed beyond all reason already.  The situation that followed was only more annoying.

 

“What in -- is that him?”  Frea, Skaal warrior-woman and shaman-apprentice pointed at Yagraz’s guest.  “You were gone for seconds, and you come back with Miraak at your heels…”  She lowered her arm, slow, and her face became fearful.  “Has he taken your mind too?”

 

Yagraz looked in her general direction, Orc eyes narrowed and bared tusk on the Nord.  “If I was, you’d be every kind of fucked.”  She looked over her shoulder at Miraak and scowled.  “She’s the shaman’s daughter, so tell her our deal.”

 

Miraak nodded, then stepped forward.  “Yes, you see the deal I have set up is--”  Miraak promptly drew his sword in one motion and aimed to cut off Frea’s head with the same motion.  He found his efforts stymied by Yagraz’s fist applied to his face.  This sent him flying into the squishy walls of the black book’s chamber, and saw the ancient Nord sink three inches into the spongy barrier.  “I had to at least try.”

 

Frea blinked three times in rapid succession, then pointed at Miraak.  “He tried to kill me!”

 

“Tried being the key word there,” Miraak commented with an extended pointer finger.

 

“I have absolutely no time for this bullshit,” Yagraz growled.  “Miraak has agreed to leave Solstheim and never return, in exchange I bring him to Mundus so he can die a good death.”  She stomped over to the wall-bound Miraak and pulled him free with a wet squelching sound.

 

“I would rather avoid dying if it’s an option.”  The elder Dragonborn seemed unperturbed by the slime that connected him to the wall, he merely walked toward the side passage.

 

“Everyone dies.”  The taste of those words in her mouth was like lemon candies -- bitter.  She frowned and glared at a particular spot on the floor.  “Everyone and everything.”

 

“Even gods?”

 

Yagraz’s expression darkened so much that Frea seemed uneasy by it.  “Yep.  Even gods.  You just gotta know how to kill them.”  It was then that Yagraz had an idea for vengeance.  Meridia had officially lost the battle for whom Yagraz wanted to punch most to Sheogorath.  And Yagraz had a theory about Sheogorath that she could put to use.  She would simply ask Hermaeus Mora one question.

 

When was Sheogorath a mortal?

 

\--

 

Of all the wonders of the world Marcurio had already seen, the underground cavern beneath the Pale and Winterhold to be the most breathtaking.  It was easily as big as a Hold -- and would take days to walk from one end to the other.  Dwemer ruins dotted the landscape, crystals and glowing mushrooms the size of buildings grew nearby.  A full sixth of the cavern was flooded from underground rivers to form a lake where blind cave fish and salmon of all things coexisted.  There was even a population of giants that occupied the southern portion of the cavern.  Everywhere else was held by Falmer, their slaves, and Dwarven automatons.

 

Sneaking past the blind Falmer was child’s play -- however, their slaves and their charrus minions made things more difficult.  They had the sense to stay well away from him after he combined Restoration, Alteration, and Destruction to create a frost spell that froze them into statues in literal seconds.

 

Alone with his thoughts, Marcurio pondered many subjects while he looked for the key that would open the case in which the Elder Scroll of Dragons was held.  He thought of how frustrating it was that the Dwemer had developed a device that allowed them to read an Elder Scroll that he couldn’t simply explode in complete disregard for the scientific potential it represented.  The construction was just too sturdy!

 

He thought about his husband to be, and what the Psijics had to have seen for the situation to be even worse if Yagraz and Marcurio had blasted their way to his rescue.  He’d have to see the damage caused by his acceptance of their advice before he made a final decision on if he was correct to follow their advice.  He didn’t like that it had, without his realization at the time, been a test of what he prioritized: the people he cared about, or the world.  Marcurio prided himself on his selfish accrual of wealth and power, specifically so that he could give the benefits to people he loved.  Mostly himself, and a few others.  Placing the enigmatic concept of ‘the world’ above someone he directly cared about was not a look he wanted to be associated with him.

 

He wasn’t a hero.  They had Yagraz for heroics.  He was a thief, a scoundrel, dishonorable, and deadly in a fight.

 

And also he couldn’t seem to find the required key for the damn box with the damn scroll his husband would need according to Vivec.

 

“The Dwemer had to have a lexicon cube around here _somewhere_ ,” Marcurio muttered as he tore apart the campsite that someone had set up in the topmost levels of the Tower of Mzark.  He’d already tried violence, and all it did was apply some scorch marks to the damn contraption.  The various traps in the tower, which the previous campers had carefully avoided but ultimately succumbed to, were broken and in pieces all around the cluttered chambers.  Shifting into a handsome mist to evade the traps had gotten old, so Marcurio had become living ebony and simply walked into them.

 

Ebony won out against Dwemer metal, as it happened.

 

Marcurio paused as he remembered that piece of information, a Dwemer cabinet held aloft while he processed it.  He’d been foolish, due to distraction he would say, and only tried to violently obtain the scroll by magic.  The cabinet was discarded, and Marcurio went back into the massive chamber where the scroll was held.

 

The room had an enormous Dwemer device in the middle and a set of stairs that ran up the side of the wall to access the second level.  The roof was set with rotating mirrors, there was a control station at the top of two flights of stairs to the third level.  And dead center of the Dwemer device’s top -- which had become the floor -- was the scroll in a massive jeweled case surrounded by magnifying lenses.

 

It was truly a wonder of the Deep Elves, priceless and unique.

 

Marcurio felt nothing for this as his flesh and bones became made of black ebony metal while he approached the device.  The Eye kept his metal form alive and gave him the strength to move it -- as it was still him, regardless of the changes that had come to it.  Once in position, he pulled his fist back and struck the hinges that allowed the case around the elder scroll to move.  Before, the Dwemer metal had held against his assault.  But when magic was replaced with physicality, the metal contorted, screamed, and fractured.

 

Thus Marcurio took the Dwemer elder scroll deciphering machine apart piece by piece until the jeweled case collapsed to the floor and shattered like glass.  With callous disregard for the machine’s wreckage, the thief-mage retrieved the elder scroll and left.

 

\--

 

“...That’s the only way you know?”

 

Azura nodded, her sheer size caused a gust of air from the motion.  She was seated beside Mohamara’s throne, so tall that she towered over him even so.  She held her grandson in her hand above the throne’s arm, he was so small by the increased distance that he fit there easily.  “I understand how painful it can be to have to rebuild from nothing, but if the damage is as severe that even your own maintenance Daedra can’t repair it… there is no alternative.”

 

Auri-El flopped backward, like a petulant child, because he felt he deserved to be upset about the situation.

 

“And eventually you will need to speak to your mother about this.”  Azura’s gaze was unyielding when she met her grandson’s glare.  “You are the god of family, it is _improper_ for you to have such a dysfunctional relationship with both parents.  I can tolerate Sheogorath being estranged, but not my own daughter.”

 

“She doesn’t even know why I’m mad at her, I bet,” the dragon-cat snarled.  He broke the staring match with his grandmother and scooted around so that his back was to her.  “She’ll just get mad at _me_ for being mad at her.”

 

Azura nodded again.  “Perhaps.”  Auri-El couldn’t see it, but her face became crafty as a sudden idea.  “Did you know that Meridia was once wed to Lorkhan?”

 

The blue cat’s ears perked up and turned to catch her words better.

 

“Yes.  She, Kyne, and Lorkhan were the first ancestor spirits to experience love after Dibella learned how to compress the waves of amor that Mara emitted into the firmament and create romance.”  Azura laid her head in her other hand and feigned a wistful look.  “They were so deeply in love… so deep, that when Lorkhan came to them with the idea for Mundus, they supported him.”  Azura focused her gaze on Auri-El and saw that the dragon-cat’s tail flicked about.  “I can see you connecting the dots yourself.  Well,”  the titanic woman lifted her head from her hand and brought her grandson-carrying hand closer to her face, “how you’re feeling now is very much how Meridia felt in the aftermath of _that_ mess.”

 

“For _slightly_ different reasons,” the blue cat-god growled, half-hearted.

 

“Semantics.  What I’m saying is that she knows how it feels to be lied to by someone you love.  Use those thoughts when you speak, and she will see her error.”  Azura tipped her hand, and the diminutive cat-god went tumbling out of her hand, through the air, and landed on his throne.  “Now you need to get to work.  I’ll work on a solution to the divine-theft.”  With a massive displacement of air, the giant woman stood and moved to the door to the chamber.  She turned back briefly and met Auri-El’s gaze again.  “I love you, grandson.”

 

The dragon-cat, scruffy from having tumbled so far, became less agitated visibly.  “Love you too, grandma.”

 

\--

 

Akulakhan walked.  Elenwen stood atop the golem’s head, while her cohorts took up positions on its shoulders.  With Sunnna’rah to power them, and the Eye of Magnus jammed into Akulakhan torso to power it, there had been little left to do other than to plan their route.  Akulakhan wasn’t invincible like Numidium -- it was made of mudstone and bone to the latter’s pure Dwemer metal construction.  They actually had to account for the possibility that Akulakhan would break its legs on the journey if they took a bad step.

 

Elenwen suffered the indignity of babying a hundred-foot-tall golem as she suffered the indignity of using a _khajiit god’s_ power to complete the task she’d set out hundreds of years ago.  She and her fellows guided Akulakhan south through the snow-covered fields of Winterhold, then south toward Eastmarch.

 

Her fingers around the staff itched to lash out at Windhelm when they passed near it, but she couldn’t do so.  It would be stupid to risk their task’s completion in favor of being vengeful.  Vengeance would come upon their return to the immortal heavens, and not before.

 

Decades of work would come to a head shortly, she told herself.  Good friends lost to disable the other Towers until only two remained.  Ada-Mantia and Snow-Throat.  Soon that duo would become a solo, and the world would fall apart.

 

There was just the issue of climbing up through the former White River valley to begin climbing up the slopes of Kynareth’s mountain.  An issue complicated by Akulakhan itself.

 

The mudstone and bone golem suddenly stopped in their advance toward the Throat of the World and turned toward the geyser fields of Eastmarch.  Completely against its state orders, the golem advanced into the springs and crouched down.  Given that the golem was over a hundred feet tall, this took time.  Time Elenwen and her cohorts spent trying to regain control of the golem.

 

“It won’t obey,” Ancano snarled while he tried to use his pilfered powers to create strings to control their mudstone puppet with.

 

Ondolemar saw that the second Numidium’s gaze was focused upon a patch of mountain flowers and dragon lilies, so he decided to blast them.  Akulakhan’s massive hand moved slightly and blocked the spell -- at the cost of a massive crack in its limb.

 

“Hold,” Elenwen told them, imperiously.  “We can’t risk damaging the golem any more than we already have.”  She watched the war weapon’s fascination with the flowers and thought of a plan.  She spun Sunna’rah and thrust it at the Throat of the World.  An illusion empowered by their divine energies wove around the icy mountain -- it was suddenly covered in such flowers!  She hopped down from the golem’s head and pointed at their goal.  “See?  So many flowers up there!  Let’s go see them!”

 

Like a dumb child, the golem returned to its ordained path.  Perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, but so long as Snow-Throat was laid to rubble, Elenwen could accept enthusiasm.

 

\--

 

Savos had never thought himself a coward until he had first stood before the Dragon Priest Morokei.  Adorned with a mask of great power, and in possession of the Staff of Magnus, Morokei had endured the spellfire that Savos and his friends had put to him as if it were mere rain.  The crack in the ceiling, through which sunlight flowed, was a grim reminder of how powerful Morokei’s reply had been.

 

Kore and her cats were at his back, there was no way to run a second time.  Savos stepped into the cavern where Morokei was held fast by the enslaved spirits of the Arch-Mage’s friends.  Atmah and Hafnir were imprisoned on a nordic tiered shrine.  Along the way, there were two precipices from which criers in ancient times would announce their dragon’s command.  In their place were the ghosts of Atmah and Hafnir, the friends which had lived to see Morokei with Savos.

 

He approached Hafnir first -- the spectral figure that held Morokei trapped in a dome of magical energy had lost all defining features over the centuries.  It hardly resembled him anymore.  The Arch-Mage glanced to the Caller, who made a ‘get on with it’ gesture.  The three massive cats she had with her only made the gesture more intimidating.

 

Savos reached for the ghost and worked magicka upon it.  The necromancy he had used to bind Hafnir came apart -- as ice melts when touched.  The specter ceased his magical bombardment and stood.  But it spoke no words, its gaze was vacant, and it seemed to not recognize the cause of its torment.

 

“Hafnir… old friend,” Savos started.  “I can’t… begin to apologize enough for this.  I should have come back sooner.”  Somehow, it was worse that the Nord ghost had no expression, and said nothing.  “I’ve freed you!  You can curse me, try to kill me -- I’d deserve it.”

 

The specter just stood there, his ghostly robes untouched by the gentle breeze that rolled in through the gap in the roof.

 

Savos’ forced cheer melted under such impassive responses.  He approached and waved his hands in front of Hafnir’s eyes, and got no reaction.

 

A sudden wind that sapped the warmth from Savos’ bones erupted from the dome in which the dragon priest was contained.  _”There is nothing left, Savos.  Your task asked too much of them -- they had to give up pieces of themselves to keep me contained.  All so you could run away.”_

 

Savos, desperate to have the identity death of his friends not also be his fault, ran up to where Atmah worked, and freed her as well.  For her, the death of identity was even worse.  Not only did she have no reaction, but her physical features had degraded to the point where he couldn’t have known she was a woman or a Redguard if he hadn’t known her while alive.  She was just a human-shaped figure.

 

_”Savos.”_   The growling voice of Morokei preceded the floating corpse’s arrival in proximity to the Arch-Mage.  _”You have failed the test already -- there is no retaking it.  You may leave if you wish.”_

 

The Dunmer turned to regard the masked figure with the spiked staff in his hand.  “A test?  That’s what this all was about?”

 

Morokei nodded as if the simple answer justified the whole horrible situation.  The undead turned in the air and regarded Kore and her cats.  _”You have not failed the test, and may try again.  The Staff desires to test your master.  Come!  Face me!”_   Morokei gathered up a sphere of fire and launched it at Kore.

 

The smallest of her three cat bodyguards lept up and took the explosive fireball in her stead.  The poor creature was sent sailing through the air trailing black smoke.

 

“Wait, no!”  Savos refused to let Kore face the monster on her own and tried to cast a spell of his own on Morokei.  But his magicka didn’t form correctly -- as if he had been drained of it.

 

Morokei glanced at Savos.  _”You have failed.  You may not try again, and neither may you interfere.”_

 

Kore retaliated with a ball of sunshine that exploded and sent Morokei down in a pool of water that had formed beneath the ceiling hole.  She seemed unconcerned for her hurt cat, and for good reason as it turned out.

 

The creature stood and rejoined its siblings, as if unhurt.  Its shoulder and neck were badly scorched, but when Savos squinted he could see what appeared to be metal, pistons, and a gleaming glass lens for an eye all underneath the flesh.  A mechanical cat made to look natural!

 

“Savos, just try not to do what you do best,” Kore shouted at him as she called more Restoration magic into the air.  “Don’t screw this up!”

 

The Arch-Mage was about to retort when he caught Atmah’s specter with the corner of his eye.  Perhaps staying out of it would see this whole mess _fixed_ for once.  He stood there and watched as Kore and Morokei battled.  A spectacular fight to be sure, and Kore seemed to have the advantage due to her mechanical cat companions.

 

But while they fought Savos thought.  His inaction had led to Atmah and Hafnir’s identity deaths.  His inaction had led to dozens of students from his college being murdered.  And his inaction had been born of paralyzing fear.  He’d spent hundreds of years afraid, and his disgust with himself was so great that it overcame his fear for one moment.

 

“No!”  Savos shouted as he lept onto Morokei’s back from the temple.  “I won’t just stand back and let someone fix my mistakes for me!”  The Arch-Mage scrambled to maintain his flying grapple of Morokei, then forcibly removed the dragon priest’s mask.  Morokei wove a cloak of lightning around himself in an attempt to get Savos to let go, but it didn’t work quick enough.  Savos used the mask of Morokei as a weapon to bludgeon the undead’s skull in.

 

The Staff of Magnus slipped from Morokei’s fingers and fell -- trailing glittering motes of light as it went.  Before it hit the ground it vanished in a puff of such sparks.  Morokei’s flight spell ended moments later as the dragon priest was struck by his own mask, and Kore’s restoration spells at the same time.

 

Savos landed with the corpse of Morokei on top of him and hastened to get it off.  But as he moved it, the withered husk broke apart into dust.  When he looked up he saw Kore and her companions approach, but also the ghosts of his friends fade away until there was nothing left of them.

 

“On the one hand,” Kore said with her hands on her hips when she finally arrived.  “That was incredibly foolish and could easily have gotten you killed.”  Then she sighed and offered her hand to help him up.  “But it was good that you solved a problem for yourself for once.”

 

“Shame about the Staff of Magnus, though,” Savos muttered while he took Kore’s hand to stand up.

 

“It is where it needs to be now,” said the sabre cat that had its metal insides exposed.  Bizarrely, it spoke with a heavy Whiterun accent.

 

Savos blinked, once, twice, three times.  Then he replied, shocked and amazed: “You can talk?!”

 

Kore scoffed.  “Of course they can talk.  You just weren’t worth being spoken to until now.”  She was backed up by words of agreement from her companions.  “You should have heard the nasty things they were saying about you all the way to Labyrinthian.  They asked to eat you seventeen times!”

 

\--

 

Marcurio decided that he was going to call the Psijic order and demand a _detailed_ account of how his fiancee’s current state was the better choice.  Both the green and pink tojay were nearly catatonic when Marcurio arrived at their Winterhold manor.  Jone had been bawling so much his face was red through his fur, and Jode was visibly frazzled trying to care for him.

 

The literal second Jone saw Marcurio, the babe held his arms up in the classic ‘pick me up’ gesture.  A responsible dad, Marcurio did so without hesitation, even before he set the elder scroll of Dragons down.  Jode followed her brother and curled up on Marcurio’s shoulder.

 

After a while, Jone’s crying became a sort of language -- it was possible to read what the babe wanted or felt from the way he cried.  Marcurio tried hard not to think about similar the Little Moon’s crying was to when Sheogorath had almost decapitated his father.

 

There was a vampire elf and Orthorn tending to the god-cats when Marcurio carried the children into the large bedchamber.  Orthorn spun a story about why the vampire wasn’t a threat but Marcurio didn’t listen -- he only had eyes for the catatonic cat.  He barely noticed that the Dragon scroll immediately yanked itself from his grip, struck the vampire in the face as it flew, and joined the Sun scroll directly in between the two cats.

 

The twin Khajiit had their eyes open, but glossed over.  The colors had drained from them until only their stripes remained, with the most prominent color in the middle.

 

“Momamama can’t wake up,” Jode said, despairing.

 

Marcurio took Orthorn’s chair and sat beside Mohamara’s side of the bed.  Jone had quieted down now that he had one of his dads holding him.  The formerly pink cat’s hand naturally gravitated toward Marcurio and weakly wrapped around the Nibanese man’s hand when the two met.

 

“Vivec said the scroll would help,” Marcurio muttered.  He glared at the item he’d gone to so much effort to retrieve, which had begun to orbit the Sun scroll who in turn orbited the Dragon scroll.

 

“Excuse me, pardon me.”  Yehochanan scurried into the room, and snipped at the ankles of the vampire and High Elf, then crawled up onto the bed.  “Orthorn, your conjuration skills are needed.”

 

“I can assist with conjuration needs,” the vampire added, his tone proud and defensive.

 

Marcurio kept his eyes on the cats and let them have their antics.  He noticed that Mohamara didn’t have his Meridian amulet, and instinctively rose to fetch it.  The Imperial’s heart ached when the near-catatonic cat’s hand groped around for Marcurio’s when he had to step away.

 

Jone burrowed his face into Marcurio’s scarf, while Jone stood up to watch what the crab and the elves were doing.  Meanwhile, Marcurio searched through Mohamara’s chest of drawers and cabinets for the amulet.  He found it in a small locked safe, alongside the cat’s earrings.  All five items were retrieved, though Marcurio stopped what he was doing when he turned to see what the elves had been up to.

 

A ball of Daedric fire appeared above the bed, which both elves struggled to maintain.  After a second of near-collapse, the ball faded and left a third Mohamara with another elder scroll to flop onto the bed.  As he had predicted, the third tojay was blue -- but had black dragon-scales similar to Alduin’s scattered around his body.

 

A body the new Mohamara clearly didn't want to be shown off as he grabbed the comforter his other selves were under and wrapped it around himself quickly.  The new aspect of his fiancee blushed a darker shade of purple, Marcurio noticed.  “Would it have killed you to summon my trousers too?”

 

“Perhaps,” the vampire said, with a shrug.  “It would depend on the quality of my lord’s trousers.”

 

The third Mohamara, who was still shorter than either elf while he stood on the bed, squinted at the vampire.  “Smartass.”

 

“I like the new look you have, love,” Marcurio said while he approached.  It took all his effort to remain suave, in control, and calm in the face of a Mohamara that was capable of speech and motion.  “Those scales go to… interesting places.”

 

The new Mohamara’s blush deepened and he promptly sat down between the other versions of himself.  “Not in front of the children, my students, or the undead.”  The third scroll he carried broke free of his grip and joined the other two.  Their orbits sped up quickly over the course of ten seconds.

 

“So you were in Oblivion?”  Marcurio sat down and set the jewelry on the table beside the bed.  “Is it a mess over there, too?”

 

“It’s going to be more of a mess in a minute.”  The new Mohamara sighed and sat his other two selves up so that they leaned on him.  Once all three were shoulder to shoulder the three scrolls broke apart and lined up with the bases of their necks.

 

Marcurio’s smile vanished in the instant before the elder scrolls thrust themselves into the spines of his fiancee’s three constituent pieces.  There was no gore, just a creaking of bone and white light where the scrolls and gods connected, but from the middle cat’s expression, it was extremely painful.

 

Once they were fully inserted, the three cats remained still for a moment before they began to melt into each other.  Marcurio quickly covered Jode’s eyes, as it was not a pleasant sight.  The three cats might have been made of wax from the way they began to soften and meld into one another.  They didn’t drip onto the blankets, so there was one good thing, but Marcurio had to resist the urge to vomit as the process went on.

 

\--

 

Mr. Moody found that the Soul Cairn’s control rooms quite similar to their ship’s in layout, but quite different in function.  There wasn’t a chadburn in sight, nor any pistons.  He walked through crumbling halls full of purple dust with a map brought up on his officer’s micro-slate.  Far away, he could hear three earth-shattering ‘booms’ that signaled the mnemonic control rods had been inserted.

 

With the rods inserted, they could link the ship’s spheres to the Soul Cairn, and brute force a takeover of the realm.  And with the additional storage space, they could finally connect the new sphere the blue dragon-cat had brought with him.  Mr. Moody flipped to another record to review these inactive spheres -- and noted that there were too many.  They simply didn’t have the manpower to manage that many spheres -- they would have to be passed off.

 

Quickly he started a call with the lord’s First Servitor.  It rang for a moment before the spider-crab appeared on his micro-slate’s screen.  “Yes?”

 

“Sir,” Mr. Moody said, saluted as he walked, and made a face as he stepped on some false bone decorations the previous administration had put up.  “I’ve noticed an excess of spheres -- what are our plans for them?”

 

The spider-crab clacked his claws together.  “War and Archery will be held inactive for now, to be handed over to Jode once she’s fully grown.  The same with Magic and Fire, but for Jone.  The others are to be traded to other et’Ada, returned to Akatosh, or kept.  The spheres being kept will be decided on in a moment.”

 

Mr. Moody nodded and ended the call.

 

At last, he found the innermost control center for the Soul Cairn, left to languish and rot like all the systems in the Oblivion realm had been.  It was styled as an enormous statue of sixteen black skeletal arms which branched off from one torso, with a black soul gem jammed into the skull’s forehead.  There was a seventeenth arm, but it was larger than the others and gray.  The Ideal Masters had an inflated sense of ego.

 

“Alright, shake the hand to build up the connection,” Mr. Moody said to remind himself of the steps he had been told to undertake.  He took hold of the gray skeletal hand with both of his own and shook it four times before an echoing click.  Yellow lights appeared in the skeleton’s eyes.  “Now find the point of entry…  aha!”  Mr. Moody climbed up the skeletal figure like it was a savannah gym until he found the contact position -- a green light in the nose.  With his narrow fingers, the officer wasted no time and booped the nose.  As soon as the contact position was pressed, the skeletal hands opened up and stuck themselves forward to be shaken.

 

“Each is a connection to the other realms of Oblivion, and also a major function for this realm.”  Mr. Moody remembered the blue Master had told them.  “I need you to get them working.”

 

One by one, Mr. Moody shook the hands.  With each shake, each connection, and each major function restored, the world around them changed.  The stormy skies were replaced with a firmament, not unlike night.  The lightning strikes became fewer until they stopped altogether.  Some of the hands were easier to shake than others, but two were left for the very end.  Meridia and Sheogorath’s representative connections, and the functions of Reflection and Imagination respectively.  Mr. Moody swallowed and looked away as he took the hands at the same time and shook them.

 

He was immediately electrocuted not unlike Mr. Reflectiony had been, and launched away from the interface.  While he smoldered from the effort, the skeletal interface changed -- each hand had the thumb and index finger touch while the other digits splayed out.  Visual changes began to take shape too, but Mr. Moody had to focus on his regeneration rather than those.

 

Meanwhile, on Mundus, Mohamara’s melting horror show ended with three cats melted back into one -- who defaulted to Mohamara’s pink form.  Heedless of the disgusted looks on everyone else in the room, the tojay began to stretch his arms, and crack his back.  “Alright,” he said as he stood up.  “Back to business.”

 

Jode finally got out from behind Marcurio’s censor hand, then laughed a little.  “Momamama, your butt is showing!”

 

The Khajiit promptly bent down to pick up his comforter and wrap it around himself again.  “Okay -- first clothes, then back to business!”

\---

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all remember my friend who lent her voice in singing a song from the fic way back when? Well she has an etsy store where you can buy Skooma Cat inspired scented candles! Among other things! To comply with this venue's rules, the direct link to the store can't be provided here, but if you hit me up on Discord you can get a link! She's MapleDrakeStudios on Etsy, consider hiting her up!


	77. Blood of the covenant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I used to think that the worst thing in life was to end up alone. It's not. The worst thing in life is to end up with people who make you feel alone." - Robin Williams

  
\---  
**Chapter 77:** Blood of the covenant.  
  
In the frozen wasteland of Atmora, there was a hole in the ground. Not an icy, cold hole -- but a warm, divinely charged hole. It was a hole caused by an impact crater -- and at the deepest point, there was a heart of solid stone that continued to beat.  
  
Meridia looked down on the heart from Oblivion and wondered how things had ended up as they had. All of her children disliked her -- and her only son was convinced she had lied to him all his life. Things hadn’t been _great_ but she thought she’d started on the road to making things better!  
  
She watched transfinite amount of divine energies spill into Mundus around the heart. In a couple hundred years, the heat it emitted would rouse an ancient volcano from sleep and see the return of Atmora. Once more the triumvirate of holy mountains would be complete -- and in some way, she would have Lorkhan back.  
  
A palpable distortion was all she got in the way of warning that her current husband had arrived at the pinnacle of her mountain. While she was light everpresent, he took the form of an orange outline around a purple figure -- a Sithis-shaped hole in existence. “You seem glum, Meri-pants!”  
  
The prismatic essence which Meridia was made of shifted into the cooler side of the spectrum. “For good reason. Have you _seen_ our son?”  
  
Sheogorath as a hole in the world contorted unnaturally. “Is that all you wish to talk about? One son? He’s cute, and fun to mess with, but hardly the most important thing in the world, Meri-pants.” He chuckled. “Well, given his recent promotion, I guess he sort of is.” The Mad God’s tone became low, edged in malice. “But he won’t be that way for long. Then he won’t be as uppity, and I can go back to playing with him.”  
  
She of Infinite Energy rankled at the dismissal. “Sheogorath,” she said with a tone of warning.  
  
“You know, you’re right! I should let Kyne play with him some, to keep things interesting!” The hole-in-the-World grinned with near-human teeth. “See, I can’t wait until Morihaus drops the brother bomb on our boy -- he’ll have to delete certain images from his slate, I bet.”  
  
Again, Meridia spoke the Mad God’s name as a warning.  
  
“Oh right, I guess that High Elf witch broke it, so it’s a moot point.” Sheogorath flipped his hand dismissively. “Darn, was going to be so deliciously awkward too.”  
  
Red-spectrum light gathered into a hand and smacked the hole-in-the-World. “Our son had his realm -- one he built up from nothing -- wrecked by what _you_ said!”  
  
However this time, Sheogorath didn’t just take a smack. His eerily human grin vanished and he lashed out at the prismatic spectra. Sheogorath had never _hit her_ before, even when she’d hit him first!  
  
All throughout Meridia’s realm, all the Rooms, the echoes of the two attacks lingered and drove the Daedra and souls collected there to stillness.  
  
“His realm broke apart because you lied over the course of a lifetime, and kept him distant so that you could control him as Azura controls you.” Where there had been a smile in the hole-in-the-world there was a vicious snarl. “You were never there for him, or any of them. Aye, I wasn’t always of one mind on how to parent them -- having more than one mind is so much _fun_ \-- but I was there. You weren’t.” Sheogorath’s voice became intermingled with a mortal’s -- a woman who in the past Era had been a great hero. “I let them know me, to understand me, and decide how they feel about me. All you’ve ever done to them is act distant because you couldn’t bear them not loving you.” The Mad God spoke an alarming amount of sense, particularly for being a hole-in-the-World.   
  
All the sense in the world could have been contained in that point of insight, and it wouldn’t have mattered. Meridia let loose a cacophonous roar and threw her light-self upon Sheogorath.  
  
This time the Mad God did nothing. He let Meridia tear into him, vent her spleen because he knew he had hit the magic button to get it through to her why the situation had unfolded as it had. He reformed as quickly as she tore him apart, so the only end result was Meridia wasting her attention on the attempt.  
  
When she had spent her spleen, Sheogorath grouped up around his bizarrely human teeth and resumed his hole-in-the-World appearance. “What do you even _know_ about him, hmm?” The Mad God huffed, indignant. “I’m the boy’s main antagonistic force, and I at least know his favorite food, his favorite mortals, his favorite colors, and what his flesh tastes like. Have you ever given him a _nibble_?!”  
  
“No,” Meridia answered in a tone of despair. “I don’t know any of those things.”  
  
“In order: flatbread hamburgers; his husband, students, best-friend, some random Nord named Hadvar, and that Ri’saad person; pink, blue, and green; and sort of like oranges and pork mixed together with a bit of that cheese that tastes of despair.” Sheogorath flapped his arms and rose through the air to hover closer to Meridia’s prismatic cloud. “The boy dislikes me -- that’s fine, I don’t care -- but at least I’m part of his life. I act like this cause he _asked_ me ta’ do it. And any time he’s been in trouble, he could call on me for help -- but not you. You never even gave him yer damn _number_ to call if he needed something.”  
  
With every failure of her listed, Meridia shrank in size and dimmed slightly. When her husband offered an embrace to help with the uncomfortable thoughts she had, Meridia took him up on it. Without time to measure it, their embrace could have lasted an Era of the world or a scant few seconds -- it mattered little. “What would you suggest?”  
  
Sheogorath laughed, he chortled, he chuckled, and wheezed all from different mouths. “Well, the first thing I would suggest never asking _me_ for parenting advice. The second thing would be to do what you did with Peryite: Attack his enemies on his behalf.” The hole-in-the-World grinned. “However, I’m still his primary antagonist so I’ll be shielding them for a little while longer -- just until that Yagraz girl lines up the trajectory.”  
  
\--  
  
Mohamara’s first order of business after he got dressed was to shower the kittens with affection until Jo’leen had to step in.  
  
Baby Jone was lifted up higher than Mohamara could jump, which the kitten found tremendously fun to be so tall, and carried over to his crib. “Khajiit understands missing ma’khajiit terribly,” the giant cat said in an understanding tone, “but ma’khajiit like to keep schedule -- it helps them learn later.” She pointed over to where Jode had curled up on top of an armoire. “Even feisty cat naps at a set time.”  
  
The pink tojay arched a brow but didn’t stop the nurse from getting Jone ready for his nap. He climbed up to the top of the armoire to give Jode a blanket to nap with and a quick head-bonk before he let her get to her nap.  
  
“If Ja’khajiit has time, he could nap with the kittens?” Jo’leen gestured to the box Mohamara had been locked in on the trip to Winterhold.  
  
“A nap would be great -- but I can’t.” Mohamara hopped down from the armoire and trotted over to get one last glance at Jone. Both kittens had started to lose their color points and transition into their juvenile coats. Jone had started to develop a blotched pattern, not unlike a cat species Mohamara had once seen at a zoo, but he couldn’t recall the name. Jode had started on the path to spots.  
  
Baishi, visibly larger than when Mohamara had last seen her, lept off from her mother’s shoulder to climb to the top of the armoire and lay down with Jode. It seemed that the two had become friends, though Mohamara tried to reign in hope.  
  
With both kittens seen to, he left the room and went downstairs. Nordic houses in the Fourth Era were more or less open concept. Only the fireplace was a fixed feature -- if the walls were made of wood it could reasonably be assumed they were only loosely attached to the wall and could be moved around. In Eras in the future, this would become the basis for open concept lair apartments, some with walls made from upsized prego blocks.  
  
He arrived in the kitchen space and saw Marcurio and the undead Snow Elf had been in a staring contest for apparently quite some time. Their eyes had become inflamed -- not literally. Though Mohamara couldn’t shake the hardwired Meridian urge to set the undead on fire out of principle, the man had helped summon him back into Mundus. The undead would be allowed to continue existing.  
  
As Mohamara looked at him he was filled with vague half-remembered memories. A young elf who foolishly crafted a sword for the god of archery and gave it as an offering. The version of him that remembered these things had been annoyed, but Mohamara felt a surge of empathy -- he remembered how desperate he’d been to earn Meridia’s approval when it was something worth seeking to him. And perhaps he could cure vampirism once the Soul Cairn was fully under his control?  
  
With those thoughts in the back of his mind, the cat sat at the table next to Marcurio and rubbed his head on the Imperial’s arm.  
  
Marcurio immediately broke the staring contest and focused on the pink tojay -- specifically by placing his hand dead center between Mohamara’s ears and scratching his scalp through is fur. “Feeling better, love?”  
  
Mohamara noted the way the Snow Elf’s lip curled when Marcurio used the l-word. Those vague memories brought up names and events, and the ones that bonded with the Snow Elf also tied to the name ‘Vyrthur’, so Mohamara guessed it to be his. Vyrthur’s sympathetic bonds were a tangled mess, but he could follow the lines of thought between him and Marcurio -- Marcurio tripped the uncanny valley for Vyrthur. He was so much like a dragon, or Dragonborn, but wasn’t -- and it freaked Vyrthur out. Mohamara had felt that with stuffed life-sized tojay dolls that had been available in Fallmart when he was a child -- at first he had thought that they were others like him, but as he went up to them he noticed they _weren’t_. He could only imagine how worse off the experience would be with a subject that could move and talk.  
  
“A lot, yeah.” Mohamara could help but purr as Marcurio plied his cat-petting talents. “Still being drained, but they’re mostly full up so there’s not as much of a drain as it was before.” The divine cat’s eyes went unfocused as he followed the sympathetic bonds that connected him to the thieves -- it was easy to cut the connection but if he did he wouldn’t be able to easily reabsorb the power. “They’re near the middle of Skyrim right now -- the Throat of the World, along with some tangled knot of sympathetic bonds that I don’t recognize.”  
  
“According to your students,” Vyrthur said, reserved, “the Thalmor brought in some odd statue, like the Numidium but made of stone. They connected it to the orb they’re calling the Eye of Magnus, then left.”  
  
The part of him that was Auri-El stirred and immediately desired vengeance upon the elves for using _his_ unborn sibling as a power source. Mohamara took his mind off the situation to manually work out why those feelings of vengeance had manifested so rapidly -- he hadn’t defaulted to ‘vengeance’ mode right away before. And when he followed those bonds they led back to the idea of family. Even though he wasn’t a fighter, he wanted to do his part to protect his family, and that sibling hadn’t had a chance to be born yet -- maybe they never would. Ultimately it would have to be Meridia to decide what to do with the Egg of Magnus, as it was hers.  
  
And if she did decide to do something with the egg, he’d be there to promptly kick her in the teeth rather than let her ruin someone else’s life.  
  
When he connected those dots he couldn’t help but think that he had started to develop issues and that perhaps a therapist was called for. Were there even therapists in Fourth Era Skyrim? He was going to ask Marcurio when he tuned back into their conversation and noticed his husband-to-be on his micro-slate. Everyone else in the dining area had left, with their dirty dishes still on the table -- because they were barbarians who clearly had never heard of a wash basin.  
  
“...Yeah, I don’t think anyone here would object to that, can you make it hurt just a _smidge more_ than you were previously?” Marcurio held the micro-slate up to his ear rather than use the looking glass servitor, so it wasn’t immediately apparent to whom he spoke. The Imperial quickly noticed Mohamara looking at him and visibly brightened. “Hey, he’s back from his god-visions, want to talk to him?” The Imperial frowned shortly thereafter. “Alright, fine, I’ll ask.”  
  
Mohamara could already pick out the sympathetic bonds between Marcurio and the person on the call, but the mess of emotion on the other side made him uneasy.  
  
Marcurio took the micro-slate off his ear and addressed Mohamara directly. “Yagraz wants to know why you didn’t call her for help after the Thalmor yanked you.”  
  
The cat’s ears drooped and he looked away. “The Thalmor in charge stepped on my slate and broke it.” Marcurio was quick to anger, so Mohamara expected him to shift into immediately plotting vengeance.  
  
“Yagraz, I have to put you on pause for a moment. Husband stuff.” There was a soft ‘boop’ sound, and seconds later Mohamara found the Imperial’s micro-slate held out in his field of vision. “Yagraz once told me that the two of you had a secret way to talk to each other so that I couldn’t cut her out of your life. I’m guessing the slate was tied to that, and her reaction to you being incommunicado sort of reinforced that guess.”  
  
Mohamara’s ears perked up when offered the micro-slate. He took it and turned to look at Marcurio again. “But I made it for you.” Did he not like it? Had he only been using it out of obligation?  
  
The Imperial promptly booped the pink cat’s nose. “I’m _loaning_ it to you, love. You’re perfectly capable of creating your own once the fools sapping your power and resources are dealt with.” The Imperial’s smile was reassuring. “Your friend wants to talk to you, and I think you’re going to want to hear what she has to say.” He tapped the screen on the micro-slate to bring up the unlock menu.  
  
While the micro-slate was unlocked, Mohamara arched a brow. “Wait, if you had her on pause, then it shouldn’t need unlocking.” He looked up at Marcurio with confusion. “Um, I think you dismissed her by mistake.”  
  
Marcurio arched a brow and shook his head. “She thinks I can’t use the thing very well, so it lets me totally cut off the conversation and restart it when I have a comeback for her.”  
  
“You play a dangerous game, Mr. Tullius.” Mohamara stuck his tongue out at the Imperial then looked down at the background for his micro-slate. It was a selfie of the kiss they’d had literal minutes after Mohamara had given the Imperial the micro-slate. How had he figured out how to take a selfie that quickly? “And apparently a hopeless romantic too.”  
  
The Imperial scritched Mohamara’s scalp again then stood up. “Not so romantic that I’m going to sit out the plans for how to savagely murder the Thalmor responsible for this situation. Seeya in a bit, love.”  
  
When the thief-mage had left the room, Mohamara tapped the call servitor to recall Yagraz’s number. It buzzed for only a few seconds before she picked up.  
  
“Slick, I swear on Malacath’s masticating mashers that if you do that _again_ \--”  
  
Mohamara cut her off by way of a looking glass request. “Hey, giant woman, it’s me!” His tail was up and his ears at max height, able to talk to his friend again!  
  
“Short stuff, you motherfucking piece of shit, you better have a good reason for making me worried or I’ll kick your ass as soon as I’ve smashed Sheogorath’s head open.”  
  
The cat rolled his eyes. “You always say you’ll kick my ass, but then I give you the kitten eyes and you back down. I’ve even got actual kittens to back me up this time!”  
  
Yagraz snorted. “Your cute powers won’t save you this time, short stuff. This time I’m too pissed to be distracted by how adorable you and your babies are!”  
  
“Go ahead and try it, you jolly green giant. It didn’t work the last five times, it won’t work this one, either!” It was like old times, before the time travel, the horrifying revelations, and people interested in what he represented rather than who he was. But that moment of brief bliss couldn’t last -- he couldn’t _not_ talk about what he’d found out to Yagraz. “....Meridia’s my mom.”  
  
“I know, short-stuff.” Yagraz’s reply was immediate and weary. “Your uncle told me Sheogorath had told you.”  
  
Mohamara realized then, that Yagraz had never answered his looking glass request. She hadn’t declined it either, just left it. It was for the best, however, as the cat rested his head on the table and kept the micro-slate up to his ear. “You were right. Every time you told me I was wrong about Meridia being a ‘good’ Daedra, about how kind and loving she was.” It worried Mohamara how he didn’t seem upset to admit that -- he just felt exhausted. “You can say ‘I told you so’, now.”  
  
“I told you so.” Yagraz didn’t say anything for a long time, but Mohamara could hear her breath to know she was still on the line. “Did that help any? Get you angry? Anger is what I was going for.”  
  
Mohamara shook his head before he remembered she couldn’t see him. “No. I’m still just… stuck wondering how she could be part of the love sphere and just… not care about me when I lived in her temple all those years.”  
  
The Orc could quickly see where the cat’s mind went, seemingly, for she stopped it with her next words. “You didn’t do anything to deserve being alone when you should have been part of her family. If she didn’t want you in her life, fuck her. You’ve got a new family now, and she doesn’t have to be a part of it.”  
  
While those words were shaped in the meatspace of Mundus, a great endeavor was undertaken in Oblivion. Hundreds of Mohamaras were pulling on chains and pushing spokes of wheels to assist. That which they moved sparkled of mnemonic warmth -- a loving embrace, food to put misery far away, an inviting fire to see the faces of your comrades by. The Mohamaras lifted it from the wreckage of their former home and, through jury-rigged engine cranes, to a new resting spot. Where once the attack dog of the Ideal Masters had made his lair, the sphere of Family was positioned above. The roof had been torn open and additional Mohamaras scrambled to get tubes and clamps in position for the new sphere. A gap had been made for Family, alongside the marble-sized Kindness sphere and vine-covered Life. While Yagraz continued to speak, the sphere of Family was released to fall into place and be reactivated.  
  
Mohamara spasmed suddenly, though he didn’t know why. It was enough to shake him from his melancholy mood, however. “Heh, speaking of that. I got to meet my sisters while I was incommunicado. They’re all shorter than me!”  
  
“Wow, short-stuff. You must’ve needed a microlens to see them.”  
  
“Fuck you too, giant woman.”  
  
\--  
  
On an island three miles off the coast of Haafingar, there was a millennia-old castle. It was a piece of architecture from a time long ago -- pointed arches, detailed statuary, pointed spires, and other such grim features. Colorless, dark, and weighed down with tens of thousands of dead souls held in torment.  
  
Unseen, Kyne's birds and Arkay’s butterflies filled the air above the castle, each called to ferry a soul into the afterlife. They couldn’t approach for the chains of Molag Bal were wrapped, similarly unseen, around the castle and all that existed within it. But Meridia could see it -- through her beacon as it rose into the air above her recently completed temple.  
  
The lair of the apostates had been a stain on her view for thousands of years, as previously Molag Bal had been too careful in guarding his Champion. But Boethia’s meddling had seen the Champion parted from the Mace, and Molag Bal’s power weakened. Even if Meridia were not the mightiest Prince, she could lay low the apostate lair. She also saw, in the distance, mortals who dared threaten her wife’s sacred mountain -- her chosen throne -- her Throat.  
  
Meridia opted to kill two birds with one stone.  
  
Her voice rang out in the invisible spaces of Nirn, the threads of Life that wove together and became Nature when looked at from above. “I am Meridia, Prince of Light and Life! Harken to me!”  
  
Sunflowers turned and faced her, the wind stilled so it could listen, the tide halted so it could obey.  
  
“I call to that which fell here before time, that which has cooled and gone still with inactivity. When Lorkhan lied and plucked my wings so I would support his Endeavor! The piece of me that dwells in Mundus still -- awaken!”  
  
Kilkreath stirred. A tremor that rattled the half-abandoned embassy at the point, all the way down to Castle Dour and For Hraggstad at its roots. Fissures opened up through which noxious gas flowed.  
  
“You formed of my wings, of my blood and bone! Head the words of your master! _**Rise! Awaken!**_ ”  
  
Molten rock rose up through the fissures, as another earthquake widened them. In Solitude city, people could see the smoke at the top of the long-dead volcano and knew fear -- it was dead no longer! Meridia bade herself wake one more time, and a third, even greater earthquake began. Cracks deep enough to show the molten rock within Kilkreath formed all along the northern side of the mountain, from mountaintop to mountain’s root. However, the invisible agents of Arkay and Kyne could see the cracks extend into the sea, and below the water.  
  
The apostates never knew what killed them, as it tore its way up from beneath their feet with fire and rage. [On wings of tempered steel](https://cdn-images-1.medium.com/max/1600/0*8j7qVUfchrq1g1RU.), it rose -- a living suit of armor as tall as a mountain. Flame and light spewed out between its feathers to lift it up, while the many gemstone eyes along its body looked about. While the castle went to pieces all around it, only one tower remained standing -- that which held a portal to Meridia’s son’s new realm.  
  
Born aloft like a feather, the armor of Meridia rose and saw what Meridia had -- a perverse doll that aimed to tear at Kyne’s Throat. While Kyne and Arkay’s minions snatched up the souls of the damned and apostate alike, Meridia’s armor took to the wind, sailed over Solitude, and toward Kyne’s mountain.  
\---  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, Harkon lived. He's buried under twenty tonnes of curtain wall, but he's alive. Technically.


	78. Tower support

"Greetings! Sheogorath, Daedric Prince of Madness here! I'll be taking over Chair's job of talking before and after the chapter this time! I'm here to inform you wee mortals that the next chapter will be The End. Chapter 80 will be an epilogue. Our time together is running short! But fear not, I'm working on one of those cheeses with holes in it, with holes specifically for each and every one of you! Stop on by the Isles, and let's see what you turn into once you reach the other side."  
\---  
**Chapter 78:** Tower support.  
  
Yagraz spent her time wisely -- in that she consulted the Code to find if her goal was honorable according to Malacath, then began to train when she found it was. She was going to act in vengeance upon someone of her tribe who had been mistreated -- the Code demanded blood. She paused to consider -- did Daedra bleed? According to short-stuff, Mora had bled plenty when Jyggalag ate him alive, but it hadn’t been what would normally be considered blood. Mora bled secrets, and those secrets had infected the blood of those who watched him, thus the blood type blue situation.  
  
That train of thought distracted her, so she put it out of her mind. On the frozen northern shore of Solstheim, she stretched her muscles before her act of vengeance. Miraak observed her from atop a frozen rock nearby, silent for the majority of the exercise.  
  
“You acknowledge that it wasn’t Sheogorath’s fault,” the First Dragonborn said out of the blue, while he crossed his arms and looked out to the sea. “So why does his punishment win out over Meridia’s?”  
  
“Intent, mostly.” Yagraz smashed a boulder with Volendrung to test her accuracy -- there had been a hole in the boulder, which she aimed the centermost spike through. When she pulled the weapon free of the rubble, she found the section of rock perfectly locked onto Volendrung’s spikes. Awesome. “He said it to hurt my friend, he used Meridia being a shit parent as a weapon. I’m going to hurt him for that.” She shrugged when Miraak tilted his head at her. “Who cares if it won’t last long? It’s the right thing to do.”  
  
Miraak shrugged. “You could make his suffering last longer with the Thu’um. That Shout -- Dragonrend? It hurts a Daedra just as much as a Dragon.”  
  
Yagraz paused, then looked over her shoulder. “Never heard of Dragonrend.”  
  
The First Dragonborn pushed himself off the rock and walked toward her. “Huh. I would assume the Greybeards would instruct you in it if you’re to be Paarthurnax’s puppet. Allow me to share with you the Words which made even Alduin scream out in pain.” Swirls of color burst from Miraak and surged into Yagraz as he shared memories, ideas, and comprehension with her.  
  
Joor. Mortal. To feel one’s body dying all around them but grow so used to it that they felt it no longer. Zah. Finite. Once all was spent, there would be no recovery, no second chance, just the end. Frul. Temporary. Here but for a few scant moments, and never to return again.  
  
Yagraz and Miraak were dragons in mortal form, so they were better equipped to handle such Words -- but for a moment it _hurt_ to understand them. The Words were a curse, and the curse was a shackle. It pinned her down inside her skin so that she couldn’t escape her own mortality. For several minutes afterward, she was keenly aware of her breathing and heartbeat -- to the point of distraction. For that time, she understood why the High Elves considered Mundus a prison. But when it passed, and she could just be herself again, she found the notion of _life_ as a prison foolish.  
  
She rather likened it to when she was a teenager and she would do stupid things with short-stuff that would get them in trouble and her yelled at by her Pa. As a grown woman she saw how stupid those actions were, but at the time it had seemed the _clear_ course of action. While she got back to her feet -- for the revelation had dropped her to the black-sand beach -- she pieced it together _why_ Dragonrend hurt dragons, and thus Aedra and Daedra.  
  
Immortals could only grow older. They couldn’t _grow up_.  
  
Once she had brushed all the sand off her armor, Yagraz met Miraak’s eyes through his mask. “Alright, that gave me an idea. I need you to help me design a new Shout -- one that will make Sheogorath’s existence from here on out absolutely hellish.”  
  
The Nord’s eyes crinkled, the only sign that he enjoyed her sudden change in vengeance goals. “Of course, provided you don’t mind me using this new Shout myself.”  
  
Yagraz waved her hand flippantly. “It’ll only work on ancestor spirits so whatever.” She stopped to consider, then frowned. “Well, it would only have _negative_ effects on them, anyway.”  
  
“What did you have in mind?”  
  
Yagraz led Miraak to sit down near his original boulder seat. “I want to make Sheogorath look back on his decisions and realize he fucked up, and that the situation is so far gone that he probably can’t _un-_ fuck it up. And then I’m going to smash his mortal form’s face into paste.”  
  
The First Dragonborn cupped the chin of his tentacle mask in thought. “Hmm, a nebulous task to undertake. And Dragonrend is insufficient for this?” When Yagraz responded in the negative, he nodded. “So we’re to take the ultimate dragon-slaying Shout, the first Shout created by mortals, and make it even better. A sequel, as it were.” Miraak chuckled and clapped his hands onto his knees. “This will be fun.”  
  
\--  
  
Serana hadn’t ever thought she’d see the Soul Cairn with her own eyes. Or that she would _want_ to, as the stories her mother had told her weren’t very inviting. But with all the actively hostile elements blown away, it was a surprisingly beautiful place. The deep purple sky sparkled with aquamarine stars, fewer than Nirn’s stars and more evenly spaced. According to the Daedric construction workers that had worked in the ship, they were actual aquamarine gems set into the outer layer of the plane, each would have been the size of the Throat of the World if she stood next to one. She had been fed some story about how the gems were necessary to distribute the workload for plane maintenance among the Ideal Masters.  
  
Those same Masters had been handed over to the construction workers for ‘immediate repairs’. They had an entire line of Soul Cairn undead, tormented souls, and even a dragon all strapped to a Dwemer conveyer belt -- they called it ‘the reassembly line’. Slabs of the ruined ship had been removed to create a walled in building to house the reassembly line and the devices used to reassemble people.  
  
From the frantic notes he took, she guessed Tolfdir found the whole thing spectacularly interesting. The scruffy cat had found a spot on top of the foreman’s shack where they could watch the reassembly with fewer obstacles in the way.  
  
“Fascinating,” the Master Alterer said while he watched the construction workers start in on the dragon. “So that’s what became of Durnehviir. Trapped in the Soul Cairn? But why? He can’t have come here for power -- he ruled Bromjunaar, the capital of Skyrim in his time.”  
  
Serana shook her head, stretched out and popped some vertebrae. “Dragons and vampires are rather similar -- both crave power in ever greater amounts.”  
  
Tolfdir paused, then looked over at her with his notebook lowered. “Even you?”  
  
The vampire cat shrugged. “Yeah. But I’d been second only in authority to my parents for hundreds of years before I was locked up. There was no more power to get that didn’t require replacing them, and I didn’t want to.”  
  
She considered where she would go from here on -- cursed as she was, she wouldn’t be welcome among her father’s clan. Did she even want to be part of them anymore? Learning at the college, even if she had been cursed, was fun. The Pink Coats had been nice to her, and she’d got to meet _Morihaus_ in person.  
  
Valerica and Harkon would undoubtedly not approve of her choices, or the curse. But neither were around to voice their opinion, so Serana let it be what it was -- her decision to live a life she wanted. She looked away from the reassembly line just as a vampiress in armor similar to hers was brought to the focus of the construction workers and machinery. “To be honest, I kind of don’t want power so much as I want to have some fun with my life. Learning magic, hanging out with those pink goofballs? That’s fun.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And don’t tell anyone I said this, but being a cat is pretty fun too. The acrobatics I can do makes me feel like a dancer.”  
  
Tolfdir regarded her and held his pencil up to his lips in consideration. “You sound like you’re disproving your earlier point. What you say you want is clearly different from what you say vampires want.”  
  
Serana narrowed her eyes at him. “What are you implying?”  
  
The scruffy cat chuckled as if he weren’t the subject of her glare. “I think you’re changing who you see yourself as. I think you’re not letting your vampirism define who you are -- but you’re letting _you_ define who you are.”  
  
The vampiress held Tolfdir’s gaze for a moment then burst out laughing. “You’ve been a cat too long, you’re talking nonsense.”  
  
Tolfdir shrugged. “I may be wrong. We haven’t known each other all that long -- perhaps I’ve just seen things that I want to see, hmm?”  
  
In the back of her mind, while she laughed, Serana couldn’t help but wonder how nice it would be to be someone different. It would be great if she didn’t have to be a vampire minion of Molag Bal, or related to monsters and have to clean up their mess in her life. Perhaps one day she could just let herself just be Serana and be content.  
  
\--  
  
“...Yeah, I expect her to just try smashing the problem and it won’t work. ...Well, because smashing is all she really knows how to do -- she’s got almost a million kids, come on. The jokes just write themselves.”  
  
Marcurio returned from the strategic meeting with Vyrthur and the Pink Coats to find Mohamara _still_ on the micro-slate. The Imperial had been gone for at least an hour, to discuss the merits of destroying the golem before the Thalmor on the grounds of the Numidium’s historical effectiveness. The dishes that had been left behind were cleaned by invisible hands and put away while Marcurio watched.  
  
Mohamara hadn’t seemed to notice his fiancee’s arrival yet. “Yeah, so when you can get them to all agree to come to Mundus, I think we just swarm them and lock it up while I dismantle the connection. I did something similar in Markarth a while ago, it should be fine.”  
  
Marcurio approached, silent as a thief in the night, and put himself directly behind the diminutive cat.  
  
“Alright -- I’ll get started while you talk to them. ...No, I know exactly what to say to get my way with Marcurio, don’t you worry. Can’t wait to see you in person! Bye.” Mohamara quickly ended his calling, then turned to face Marcurio with a serene smile. “Hey!”  
  
This did not please the thief-mage. “You knew I was here?”  
  
The tojay nodded. “When you’re this close, I can hear your heart beating.” He stuck his tongue out to blep at the Imperial and turned fully around on the bench. “So, how much did you here?”  
  
“That you apparently have plans of your own, that you didn’t elect to share with us who were planning the attack.” He crossed his arms and tapped his foot against the ground. “And that you know how to ‘get your way’ with me. Now, I’m _legitimately curious_ as to what this plan could be. And why you would need to cajole me into it.” The Imperial shrugged and began to count off on his fingers. “It’s not like you were recently incapacitated, nearly crippled, that _our_ children were beside themselves for _days_ because they wanted you back so badly, or that your power is being actively drained.”  
  
Mohamara’s blepping did not stop at all. “Well, let’s answer that in reverse order. Number two, I don’t intend to solve this problem with violence. And number one, I know from Sheogorath that a lot of the Thalmor are followers of Boethiah. They take themselves super seriously, so if I act like a complete jackass and don’t take them seriously, they’ll defeat themselves trying to make me.”  
  
“Or stab you to death.” Marcurio’s expression was neutral in its displeasure. “Stabbing you to death is still on the table as a way to defeat you without defeating themselves.”  
  
Mohamara shrugged. “How about we compromise?”  
  
Marcurio’s right eye twitched, but he covered his eyes with one hand and sighed to hide it. “Alright. Let’s try and compromise about you risking your life, _again_.” He took a deep breath and removed his hand from his face. “I’ll come with you, and we try your plan if they’re too strong.”  
  
“Counter offer: I bring you, Vyrthur, and Orthorn, and we try my plan first.” Mohamara held up his hand when Marcurio opened his mouth to counter-counter offer. “And! I’ll agree to wear that cultural dress thing you designed for me at our wedding.” It was clear from his expression that he thought he’d won.  
  
The problem was, Marcurio was less certain that he could negotiate better terms. He had _really liked_ the design for those Nibanese-style wedding clothes. Finding information about Meridian marriages had been next to impossible -- they hadn’t _written it down_ anywhere, so he’d gone with his culture as a template and applied Meridian iconography. In light of recent events, he might have needed to eliminate those. But all these thoughts served to distract him.  
  
It had been so long that Marcurio hadn’t said anything that Mohamara’s blepping was combined with a grin. “Can’t think of a counter-counter-counter offer? I can tell you want too,” the cat’s tone became sing-song. “So in the absence of another offer, I guess we’ll just--”  
  
“I want another kid,” Marcurio said it without thinking, and he regretted it the moment he said it, but he couldn’t stop. He _needed_ to have some control of the situation when people he cared about risked their lives. “Jone and Jode are purely from you, and that’s okay. I love them all the same. But I want a kid that’s from both of us.” Marcurio didn’t even realize he hadn’t framed it as a compromise -- but an additional demand -- until much later.  
  
The pink tojay was absolutely stunned. His grin/blep combo had fallen apart in his surprise. “Um.” This began a stuttering and blushing fit for the cat. Utterly adorable. “O-okay, fine. But after the wedding, alright?”  
  
“I’m alright with waiting until after the honeymoon.” Marcurio was magnanimous and gave his fiancee -- and himself -- more time without a fifth member of the immediate family.  
  
However, this only made Mohamara turn even redder, and stutter more. At long last, he managed to articulate a sentence: “I didn’t think we’d be going on a honeymoon….”  
  
The Imperial scoffed, and put on the guise of a suave and forward thinking man -- not at all someone who foolishly asked for additional children. “Of course we would. I have arrangements for a lovely stay in Leyawiin -- the realtor assured me that the sunsets on the Topal bay are magnificent.”  
  
“Oh, that actually sounds pretty good.” Mohamara realized he had become distracted, and shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Alright, I accept your terms. Let’s grab Vyrthur and Orthorn and get going.” He paused and looked over at the shelves full of food from the caravan of mages. “Do we still have any sleeping tree sugar around, by chance?”  
  
\--  
  
On the slopes of the Throat of the World, a battle raged. High Hrothgar, the ancient fortress of the Greybeards, stood severely damaged with a series of holes in its roof as if something had stepped on it. Which, given the immense stone golem that climbed its way to the summit despite the battle, probably had transpired.  
  
The Greybeards themselves fought against the invaders -- three incredibly powerful High Elves, that seemed most annoyed that the Greybeard’s Voices could harm them. They had strolled in, with expectations of slaughter, and been soundly launched off the side of the mountain like dumbasses. They were annoyed the first time it happened, and doubly so when it happened the second they floated back up to the fortress.  
  
After the fourth time, they met up atop the surface of White Lake to discuss a plan -- and were even more annoyed that they had been forced to employ strategy.  
  
Ancano, greatest in rage, suggested the most viscerally pleasing option. “We have the power -- we could blow up the mountain and be done with this whole affair.”  
  
Ondolemar shook his head even though he _wished_ the solution could be that simple. “We can’t. Akulakhan is built like one of the Towers but is unaligned, it can destroy not only the physical Tower, but the metaphysical copy which controls the Nord’s narrative! Akulakhan has to destroy the mountain, or all this effort was wasted!”  
  
Radiant Elenwen looked up and saw the problem had grown infinitely more troublesome. “We have greater issues to deal with.” She spun Sunna’rah and let its divine light propel her away. “Such as getting out of the splash zone.”  
  
Her fellows didn’t know why she left until they too looked up and saw the sunlight blocked by Akulakhan as it fell from the mountainside. They hastened to follow in radiant Elenwen’s footsteps, but they were not as wise and were swept away by the huge wave that resulted when the golem struck the lake.  
  
Elenwen rose up through the air, past the clouds, and saw that which had cast down Akulakhan. It was bigger than the golem, bigger than Anumidium, and bigger than Crystal-like-Law when it had stood. It had the shape of a mer, made of chrome steel, with wings of fire and metal, and eyes like jewels all across its body. “So we’ve made you _afraid_ , to call on this tenuous fragment of yourself.”  
  
The Emissary had meant it to jab at the Daedra, but the distance between them was too great -- it could not hear her. So the great machine put one hand up to the wing-like protrusions from its face that mimicked mer ears.  
  
What had been meant as a simple ‘I can’t hear you’ gesture was taken as a direct slight by radiant Elenwen. Her grip on Sunna’rah tightened, and she clenched her teeth while her expression barely changed. “Mock me at your peril, Daedra,” she said, warning. “I have stolen the power of one god -- I will steal yours too if necessary.”  
  
Because it still could not discern her words at the tremendous distance between them, the Daedric machine then lifted its other hand to the other pseudo-ear on its head, doubling the attempt to mime.  
  
The air around radiant Elenwen burned, light flew from her like a bonfire. Anger that she had remained in control of before slipped the leash at last when even one of the gods mocked her. “Fine then! Your hubris will be your downfall, Daedra!” Divine light gathered at the hollow point of Sunna’rah and formed into a lance blade that scorched the very air. Radiant Elenwen brought her wondrous power to bear and launched the lance blade like a projectile.  
  
Arrogant in its superiority, the winged titan made no move to defend itself from the attack.  
  
Meanwhile, in the contested domain of the Soul Cairn, spheres were rapidly brought online. Kindness provided no power of its own but amplified the power of others. Life flowered and spread greenery across the previously blighted surface of the Cairn. Family melted the chains of cruelty and decay which had held the Ideal Masters in power and spun threads of love in their place. The fourth sphere was illumination. The measurement of time, trademark gift of the Day, and the first word that was spoken in Mundus. _Light_.  
  
And since radiant Elenwen drew her power from the owner of those spheres -- her attack had an unexpected burst of strength that amputated the Daedra’s metallic arm at the shoulder. The sundered limb tumbled down the side of the side of the mountain, toward the lake below.  
  
Anacano and Ondolemar, finally free of the tide that had been generated by Akulakhan hitting the water, rose up onto the lake’s surface as if it were solid. Ancano helped Ondolemar remove a particularly tenacious slaughterfish from his colleague’s coat and the two of them dried themselves with but a thought.  
  
Ancano slapped his ear, and tilted his head, to get small bits of water out of the other ear. “Well, I’d say this proves my idea in the right.”  
  
Ondolemar scoffed and dropped his hood to quickly comb his hair back to regulation slicked-backedness. “If anything, I’d say the golem falling from the mountain proves we can’t just blast pieces off. At least there was a lake here to cushion its fall.”  
  
The hoodless Thalmor sneered and used his slightly greater height to try and intimidate Ondolemar. “Come off it! You and Elenwen have been making this whole thing needlessly complex, and now we have to start the entire climb again -- and _still_ deal with the Greybeards!” He stomped away in a huff. “Violence is the simplest way to deal with our problems right now -- and if I’m wrong may the gods strike me--!”  
  
He didn’t get the chance to continue his foolish demand, as a titanic metal arm that had fallen from high on the mountain struck the lake’s surface. Specifically, the palm struck Ancano dead center, like one would swat a fly. The rest of the arm flopped to one side and began to sink. When the whole limb had vanished to the lakebed, Ancano was left on the surface, spread-eagle.  
  
Ondolemar rushed to see if Ancano was alright but soon realized that it was foolish to think so after such an event.   
  
Ancano himself addressed this, by speaking as if in a state of delirium. “Mummy, I don’t want to go to Skyrim….”  
  
\--  
  
Pixies danced -- literally danced -- through the air in the former conference room of the Ideal Masters. They trailed hoses, threads, and in one case spaghetti behind them to weave in and out through the walls. When they were done, a subordinate function would take the noodly items and connect them to polished black mirrors which were then mounted on the walls above Dwemer metal desks.  
  
With tools of thought and association, they drilled into the walls to mount panels of switches, gauges. With six or seven subordinate functions working together, they could move most of the heavy equipment -- but for that which was even heavier, they had their brother.  
  
Morihaus Breath-of-Kyne, the legendary hero of the First Era, and father of the first Emperor was utterly smitten with his ‘adorable’ baby brother. The minotaur had rapidly developed a dialogue with his three-quarters of a million in sisters over how memetically cute the Mohamaras were. But to the hero’s credit, he didn’t forcibly cuddle any of the major or subordinate functions.  
  
However, he didn’t hesitate to ‘rescue’ subordinate functions that his sisters had carried off. It was a nefarious plan, and thus it worked like a charm.  
  
Morihaus had recently left the conference room to retrieve a major function his sisters had absconded with -- Mr. Imaginationy. The indignant cat had spent the entire trip back straightening his uniform until they returned. Immediately upon Morihaus’ return with the officer, he was approached by nine subordinate functions who asked for his help.  
  
“Sure, sure,” the minotaur hero said while he set Mr. Imaginationy down. “What needs moving?”  
  
“Not moving,” one of the subordinate functions piped up. “It relates to the Thu’um.” The crowd of Mohamaras shifted as another subordinate function bought forth a slate upscaled to fit Moirhaus’ giant hands. “We found some backlogged tasks related to the thu’um, and wondered if you could review the cases?”  
  
The legendary hero took the slate, activated the screen, then took his reading glasses from one of his pockets to look as pompous as possible while he reviewed the documents. “Hmm, lasting race-wide curse and undocumented Dragon soul acquisition?” He nodded several times as he looked over the notes attached to the file. “I’ll have to look this over, do some experiments, maybe a physical. But I can look into this, no problem.”  
  
“Thank you.” The subordinate functions in the crowd then scattered back to their previous jobs, with only the slate-carrying one still in front of Morihaus.  
  
“So, what’s with all the looking glasses?” Morihaus tabbed through pages of notations on the Dragonborn subject and glanced at the plethora of polished black glass screens set up around the room. “You don’t need those for internal regulation, do you?”  
  
“This space is being repurposed -- it will not serve as the command space for the realm.” The subordinate function that had carried the slate seemed to have no purpose other than to wait for the slate to be returned, so he answered Morihaus’ question. “Once all spheres are online, and the power leak is sealed, this will be the service station from which we can begin repairs.”  
  
Morihaus looked up from the screen with an arched brow. “Repairs on the Soul Cairn? I thought that was being done at the Boneyard?”  
  
“It is.” The subordinate function gestured to the screens again as chairs were placed in front of them and subordinate functions placed audio clips onto their ears. Each screen lit up as switches around them were flipped, and the correct aspect ratio set. Each subordinate function sounded off their station and its status.  
  
“Ada-Mantia online, physical structure good.” “Red Mountain offline, physical structure severely damaged.” “Crystal-like-Law offline, physical structure severely damaged.” And so on. They listed abstract names that seemed to make no sense.  
  
Morihaus had heard of most of them before -- names like Ivory-Claw, Topaz-in-Name, and Snake-Palace were new to him, however. They corresponded to certain joint-posts in Mundus’ physical structure that held the world together.  
  
Mr. Imaginationy had been distracted by the theft of his hat by their pasta-obsessed sister and returned with it covered with it covered in rotelle and macaroni. “Make sure everything’s ready to transfer them over to the solar creatia grid,” he told the seated subordinate functions. “We have to be ready in case Snow-Throat goes offline, then we only have Ada-Mantia and Topaz-in-Name left. I want eyes on all incomplete Towers, and activation protocols written for them asap.”  
  
Morihaus became intensely more interested in the screens when he heard his mother’s mountain might be in trouble. He clopped over to the screen for the Throat of the World and saw a titanic Daedric machine with one arm as it swing at a small glowing ball. Mundus had changed a lot since he was last there -- he didn’t remember the mountain being covered in illusioned flowers, or that there was a lake on the Whiterun side of the mountain too.  
  
“What’s that?” He pointed at the lake, where something appeared to rise from the water.  
  
“An incomplete Tower that we’re writing activation protocols for.” The subordinate function that was assigned to Snow-Throat found it hard to see his assigned task through the giant man-bull in the way and promptly elbowed his brother. Except his brother was dressed in ebony armor so the function only succeeded in bashing his funny bone on the hero’s abs.  
  
“Wait a minute, where’s the Numidium?” Morihaus looked around and caught sight of a different observation function as it gestured to him. When the man-bull arrived at the second station, it showed the great brass golem on the ocean floor with giant crabs scuttling all over it. “Is it… being made into a coral reef?”  
  
“No,” the Numidium watcher replied. “The crabs are just feeding on the corpses of fish that are stuck in its joints.”  
  
The legendary hero’s face screwed up in confusion. “Why would there be fish stuck in the Numidium?”  
  
“Because it provides shelter from whales.” As if on cue, a small pod of whales passed by the Numidum, chasing tuna the size of wagons. Their chirping cries caused the observing function to shudder and briefly remove his ear clips. “Hopefully it will move once it's reactivated.”  
  
“It’s going to reactivate?” The legendary hero looked down at the observational function and squinted. “You know you seem really calm about all this. What if they succeed in taking down the Throat of the World then go after Ada-Mantia?”  
  
The Mohamara function shrugged. “What they’re trying to do with Snow-Throat won’t work on Ada-Mantia. And by the time they realize that they won’t have time to get to Topaz-in-Name before we bring an incomplete Tower online.” He gestured to the Snow-Throat observer screen. “I mean, just look at how she fights. She’s using our power like it’s a gun, no higher thought put into it at all.”  
  
There was a long pause while the other subordinate functions realized what the Numidum observer had said, then the whole room’s worth turned as one to glare at him.   
  
During that time, Morihaus scratched his head and watched the fight. “What’s a gun?”  
  
Mr. Imaginationy quickly realized the slip-up that had occurred and hastened to correct it. He had a subordinate function stand on another’s shoulders while he stood on the first’s and they tower walked to Morihaus. Mr. Imaginationy with the pasta hat then gestured to the man-bull’s biceps and made a motion to flex the limb. When Moirhaus compiled, he poked the bulging muscle repeatedly. “These are guns. Huge guns.”  
  
Morihaus looked at his arm, then at the Daedric machine in combat with a mutated elf, and squinted. “I guess I can see it… not a really accurate comparison though. It looks more like she’s using it as a projectile weapon of some kind.”  
  
“Must just be a memetic thing from our time, then. Sorry for the confusion.”  
  
\---  
  
"For those of you who can't be arsed to re-read, Topaz-in-Name is the only active Tower in Akavir. It's this pompous thing -- a statue carved out of a mountain of one of those tiger people holding a giant citrine. _I_ suggsted a citrus fruit, but _no_ , can't have anything interestin' in Akavir. Harrumph!"


	79. Be better than me.

 

 

"Looking back, when ye aren't used to looking back, is painful.  So many jokes I could have told better.  So many ideas that only needed a wee twist to be brilliant!  You know, when you mortals talked about hindsight, I always assumed you just had eyes on yer buttocks."

\---

**Chapter 79:** Be better than me.

 

Orchendor led the way through a distortion in the air and emerged in the ruined courtyard of Fellglow Keep.  The green cat waited for everyone in the hit-squad to get through before he trotted off toward the cliff which overlooked White Lake.  While he watched the rambunctious mess that was Meridia in conflict with Elenwen, a stone golem of enormous size in conflict with gravity, and two other Thalmor in conflict with dignity, the party expressed distaste with his teleportation.

 

“My neck feels slightly… off,” Vyrthur muttered and felt his neck and lower jaw.  The vampire turned his head this way and that, he even went so far as to pop the vertebrae, before he stood straight in front of Orthorn.  “Am I off-center?”

 

Orthorn shook his head, but obsessively scratched the side of his nose.  “It feels like there’s something under my skin on my nose, can you see anything?”

 

The vampire’s face was flatter than the plains of Hammerfell.  “Well, there’s a number of scratch marks, like someone dug their nail into your skin there.”  His words were sculpted from snark, laboriously etched with sarcasm and polished with snide undertones.  “But that’s the usual for you.”

 

“Oh, thanks!  I was worried,” Orthorn smiled as he replied, perhaps he didn’t pick up on Vyrthur’s attitude.  Or perhaps he chose to accept the words even if they were meant as an insult.  The High Elf cheered up and went to look out on the lake with Orchendor.

 

Marcurio, however, looked up.  And there he saw Sheogorath, seated on a cloud and chewing upon dandelions.  The Mad God waved at Marcurio who in turn wordlessly asked how many fingers he was holding up.  He quickly went to stand at Orchendor’s flank and did his best to keep the green cat out of snatch-and-grab trajectory for the Nord-like Daedra.

 

“Alright, here’s how it’s going to go,” Orchendor started as he stood and clapped his hands.  “Orthorn!”  The cat whirled to point at the Pink Coat.  “Your target is Ancano, and your goal is to make him laugh!  Do you accept this mission?”

 

The High Elf blinked, then moved past the cat to look down at the lake.  He shaded his eyes for a better view, then nodded.  “I can do that, no problem.”  Without further words, the Pink Coat turned and ran away from the cliff.  Once he was far away he gathered up frost magic and made a runway of ice that he ran along until he had the momentum to slide and keep moving.  Orthorn ramped off the cliff.

 

While he vanished into the distant view of the lake, those that had not launched themselves could hear a faint but loud ‘yeehaw’. 

 

“Good!”  Orchendor clapped his hands.  “Khajiit is so glad that his student sees the path to victory.  Next, he would like to give Vyrthur his assignment.”  When Vyrthur approached, Auri-El stood in front of him.  “Our father, Sheogorath, has a minion down there.  We don’t know his name, just that he wears a hood.”  The blue cat scanned the water’s surface and pointed to a distant black speck.  “There he is.  Your mission is to confuse him as much as possible.”

 

“I will rise to the occasion, my lord.”  Vyrthur didn’t leap from the heights at great speed.  Instead, he calmly walked up to the cliff and Shouted.  “ **Feim… Zii Gron!** ”  The Snow Elf became translucent and immaterial and threw himself from the cliffside like a diver.

 

Auri-El wove an illusion of a scorecard with the number ten on it as Vyrthur vanished into the water below.  When he turned to Marcurio, he was Mohamara again, and immediately floated up to hug the Imperial.  “Process of elimination probably helped you figure out who your target is, right?”

 

Marcurio kept his eyes on Sheogorath while he returned the hug.  “I’m going to go to Elenwen, I’m going to use my thiefy ways to steal that staff, then let Meridia squish her.”

 

Mohamara’s tail bapped him in the nose.  “No, you use the staff and J’zargo to banish Meridia’s armor.”

 

The Imperial grumbled, “he’s not even ready yet,” but didn’t argue further.  It had been difficult enough to follow Moharmara’s description of love as ‘the attractive force’ which anchored their feet to the ground, which drew objects downward when dropped, and which flight resisted.  He simply couldn’t comprehend the intense mathematics that had been involved in launching J’zargo up into the sky so that the force of love would draw him downward directly onto Elenwen if Marcurio did things correctly.

 

“I’m going to talk to the golem -- it has an unborn sibling powering it, and I can’t just leave it to suck them dry.  You’re going to see a lot of visual noise when it happens… don’t just fire blindly because it looks scary, alright?”

 

Marcurio held the cat tighter and squinted at Sheogorath.  “I’ll be sure to take aim first.”

 

“That’s all I ask.”  Mohamara didn’t adjust his grip but there was a tenseness in his hug.  “I know he’s there.  I know you’ve been glaring at him, and he’s been taunting you.”  The cat’s tail swayed, to convey annoyance.  “Don’t let him egg you on, alright?  Yagraz will deal with him -- you don’t have the firepower to seriously hurt him and if you try he’ll just turn you into a yo-yo or something.”

 

Sheogorath made finger-wands at Marcurio while the dandelions he had been chewing on floated away on the wind.

 

Marcurio wordlessly asked Sheogorath how many fingers he was holding up a second time.  “I’ll understand if you want to use a similar boundary to mine when this is all over and done with.  It’s probably best if we just slam the door on all this family nonsense.”

 

“I’m still working out this whole ‘god of family’ thing, so I can’t just kick people out.”  Mohamara’s whiskers brushed Marcurio’s neck scar when he nuzzled into the Imperial.  “Though I could just… not talk to them.”  The cat pushed away and fell back to the ground.  “Alright, if we stay hugging, we’ll never save the day.”  Pink became green, and Orchendor opened a portal for him to step through.  “Khajiit loves Marcurio very much.”

 

The Imperial put his hands on his hips and leaned backward, to pop his spine.  “Love you too.”  Marcurio floated up through the air and tried to keep his eyes on the Daedric armor and Elenwen in the sky behind Sheogorath.  He could feel the distortion from Orchendor’s portal fade, and the fact that Orchendor wasn’t there to stop him anymore made him want to lash out at Sheogorath.  He settled for being snide.  “What’s wrong, Mad God?  You’re not doing much of anything despite how we aim to stop your minion.”

 

Sheogorath shrugged and tore off a piece of the cloud to eat.  “Mmf.  You ought to know by now, I don’t really _care_ about the minion, or what his goal is.  Just as long as he helps me be the villain my son asked me to be.”

 

The Imperial stopped moving and whirled on Sheogorath.  The unmitigated _gall_ of the Prince of Madness made Marcurio see red for a split second.  “Well, maybe Mohamara should ask you to _leave_ and never come back.”

 

Maniacal laughter was the response he got.  “Perhaps he should!  We’ll see how it goes next time.”

 

Horrible memories of the sound Mohamara’s neck made when Sheogorath had slapped him so hard it killed him, being dragged back through time, and the lingering threat of such a future being _allowed_ to happen chilled Marcurio’s rage in its tracks.  “What are you saying?”

 

Sheogorath leaned backward on his cloud and clapped his booted feet together.  “Oho!  Curiosity!  I love it when the mortals I torment get curious.  So many avenues for new games.”  The Mad God’s torso rotated independent of his lower body, so Sheogorath could turn and face Marcurio with his chin in his hand.  “You remember how I pulled you through time?  Well, the rules for avoiding a Dragon Break -- with capital letters, _ooh_ \-- is that a version of the person needs to be there when I bring them back.”

 

Marcurio vividly remembered the icy cold feeling he’d experienced when he touched his past self and avoided the idea to elope.  A crash as Meridia’s armor was slammed into the mountain drew his attention for a moment.  When he looked back, Sheogorath sat pretty on the cloud with one leg crossed over the other, _smug_.  “There’s no version of Mohamara here except him -- and why would it change things if there was one?”

 

Sheogorath chortled.  “I like this version of you -- each time the boy and I do this, it’s all so predictable.  But you -- you made some changes to the usual script.”  The Mad God’s voice became low and malicious as he stood up and approached Marcurio, walking on thin air as the Imperial did.  “First you get my boy to elope, then you ask the important question.  There’s no Mohamara here, so why would it change?”

 

The Daedra lunged forward and threw one arm across Marcurio’s shoulders, then walked with him on the thin air.  While he did, framed portraits of horrible scenes flitted into existence briefly.  It was like Marcurio had entered into a grisly art gallery.  The first was a bloody mass of gore -- Marcurio only recognized it as Mohamara from the tojay’s head frozen in the process of rolling away -- a sabre cat napped nearby.  Another had his husband frozen as he was torn apart by skeletons.  More and more horrible things were depicted but Marcurio was not allowed to look away -- Sheogorath held his head to look at them.

 

“The boy doesn’t always get to this point, you know.  Sometimes he makes a mistake, ends up dead because of it.  Other times he just wishes he was dead, and I have to grant that wish for him.”  The Mad God waved his hand, and the portraits disappeared.  “Oh, the troubles and trials of being an attentive parent.”  He leaned away from Marcurio in a ‘woe is me’ pose.  “But!”  He quickly perked up.  “This time it looks like he’s just going to soft reset on his own.  And with a Dragon Break at play, things might be interesting!”

 

Marcurio flexed the power of the Eye and freed himself from Sheogorath’s grip.  “What in Oblivion are you talking about?”

 

Sheogorath, miffed that his toy was free, gave Marcurio a dirty look.  “Did you never stop to wonder why a child of two Princes would be born in Mundus?  I’m sure he told you at some point that what’s powering that golem is one of Meri-pants’ eggs -- who do you suppose that egg turns _into_?”

 

The Imperial, college educated, a master thief, and great at economics, quickly pieced together the disparate bits of information to reach a conclusion that set his hair aflame with primordial rage.  “You _motherfucker_.”  His hands clenched so hard his nails drew blood from his palms -- his vision went blurry as his eyes partially shapeshifted into a fire as well.  “You _evil_ , malicious, _motherfucker_.”

 

The Mad God made an ‘ugh’ sound and spread his arms in a ‘what can you do’ gesture.  “Hey, it’s better than me actively killing him, right?”  As if his sour mood hadn’t existed at all the white-haired Nord was all smiles suddenly.  “It’s not even the first time it’s happened!  I happen to know that while it hurts to be reabsorbed into such a comparatively simple structure, he won’t remember a thing.”

 

Marcurio’s temper finally snapped and he launched himself at Sheogorath and became a man of pure fire.

 

Sheogorath, fortunately, was not there a second later.  A spiked weapon soared down from above and struck Sheogorath in the face.  He made a ridiculous noise, like a mix between yodeling and genuine screaming as he was launched down to the surface of White Lake.

 

“Good distraction, Slick!”  Yagraz, on the back of Kipgolsik, soared downward.  There was someone Marcurio didn’t recognize on the frost dragon’s back as well, but they didn’t stop to let him get a good look.  “Go do your part of the plan!  We got this wacko!”

 

As if Marcurio could just go off with that revelation and complete his part of the plan.  He looked around, as an orb of fire, and saw the golem as it rose from the water.  A speck of pink told him all he needed to know about where Mohamara was near there.  The living flame dashed through the air and made a beeline for the golem, almost exactly for the runed orb that protruded from its chest.

 

\--

 

Ondolemar had been focused on Akulakhan since Elenwen seemed even in combat ability with the winged metal titan.  He used the mud at the base of the lake to repair damages the golem had suffered and tried to ignore the strange noises Akulakhan made.  He particularly tried to ignore how they sounded like crying.

 

Akulakhan couldn’t be crying, it was just a tool.

 

The sound of ice cracking drew Ondolemar’s attention away from the golem just enough to realize there was a strange white Mer in monochrome moonstone armor literally skating along the surface of the water.  Ice branched out from the Mer’s feet like he was the avatar of frost itself.  The two Mer stared at one another while they stood on the lake’s surface in different ways.

 

“You are interfering in official Thalmor business,” Ondolemar said on instinct more than anything.  They hadn’t really planned on anyone just _approaching them_ during their assault on the mountain.  Of course, they hadn’t anticipated being _knocked off_ the mountain, either.

 

“Well good, I was afraid I was interrupting you on your day off or something,” the white-skinned Mer replied with a sardonic tone.  “I know it feels to be worked so hard that you fight tooth and nail for any period of rest.  Even to the point where you lash out at people who want to help you.”  Ice continued to spread out from where the white-skinned Mer stood, forming a layer of frozen fractals that started off transparent then became white as it gained thickness.

 

“Leave now, or you will be assumed to be hostile.”  Ondolemar wanted to just blast the stranger -- too tall to be anything other than another Altmer with bleached skin -- but he could begin to feel the divine energy within him diminish.  If he spent too much, he would have nothing left to help tear down the heavens.

 

“Hmm, yes, you see hostility everywhere.”  The stranger walked effortlessly on the ice, his hands behind him like a butler.  “A sign of a high-stress position with inadequate cooperation.  Tell me, do your coworkers help you with your tasks?”

 

Meanwhile, Ancano floated on the surface of the lake.  He did not lay, as the improvised fly swatting he’d gotten had messed him up just a tad and he had directed his divine energy inward for repairs.

 

“Enjoying a swim too, eh?”  A stranger’s voice said, muffled by the water.

 

Ancano rose from the water and saw another Altmer in pink robes swimming nearby.  The newcomer did the backstroke like it was a pleasant day at the beach -- and this baffled Ancano.  “What?”

 

“Well, how much longer will this lake be here?  Eventually, the water will get over the top of that snowbank, and it’s going to start eroding from the other side.”  The stranger indicated the distant line of white where the unmelting snow blocked the river.  “So you have to enjoy it while it’s here, right?”

 

“Who in Oblivion are you?”

 

“I’m someone of minimal importance, like you.”  The other Altmer flipped onto his front and dove underwater.  In a moment, he was next to Ancano, with a broad grin.  “You probably took that as an insult, didn’t you?”

 

Ancano slapped at the stranger, one of their captive’s minions he realized, but struck the water when the other Mer dove again.

 

“Over here!”  The Pink Coat surfaced and squirted water at Ancano with his hands.  “Oh, we can make a game out of this!”  He dove again as Ancano launched an explosive ball of fire at the water.  Moments later he surfaced elsewhere on the lake.  “Come on try to hit me!”

 

Ancano found he had forgotten about his ruptured kidneys in favor of the pursuit of violence.

 

\--

 

When Orchendor found the golem, he was hit with a sudden bout of sympathy for the creature.  It had landed poorly and one of its arms had shattered.  The golem had waded to the shore of White Lake where it slumped over, held the stump and seemed to cry from the pain.  It didn’t weep, but it made rhythmic whines and keening cries to mimic crying -- and due to the nature of the golem mimicry could become genuine at any moment.

 

“Shh, it’s okay,”  Mohamara said as pink overcame green.  He floated up to its head and ran his hands along the Dwemer-like headcrest.  “I’ll help the pain, don’t worry about it.  Just focus on me, okay?”

 

The gemstone eyes of the golem glimmered, but it lacked the face to react further.  It seemed to understand what he’d said, and took its hand away from the stump so Mohamara could look at it.

 

While he did, the pink cat dove into the golem’s sympathetic bonds to figure out the cause of the tangle.  Visually, the wound simply resembled shattered stone with a core of white bone -- semi-liquid mud had been attached to the limb in some attempt at repairs.  “Used bones as the base structure, and that lets you feel pain.  Whoever designed you didn’t have your interests at heart, big guy.”

 

Mohamara breathed into his hands and focused on the part of him that was Life.  Life’s greatest strength was the ability to heal and grow despite old wounds -- so he focused on that while he repaired the golem’s arm.  Visually, it seemed like the bone and mudstone began to regenerate as a Troll would.

 

“I’ve got no beef with you, big guy.  Once I get my mom’s egg out of your chest I’ll find a way to turn you on again.”  Mohamara paused, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sighed.  “Poor choice of words.”

 

The bonds he could see in the golem were superficial.  It was drawn to flowers and butterflies with childlike wonder -- it had scaled the mountain since it saw many up there.  And even while Mohamara repaired its arm, it turned and poked at tundra cotton that grew on the lake’s edge.  Like a child, it had short term memory problems -- it had completely forgotten how badly it was in pain moments prior since the pain had stopped and there was a distraction nearby.

 

When the arm was repaired, Mohamara floated over to the runed orb jabbed into the golem’s chest.  “Oof, this is a bad tangle.”  Mohamara decided it wasn’t safe to pull out the Egg with such severe tangles.  How he hadn’t seen it before, he couldn’t fathom -- perhaps he’d simply not looked.  Without touching the Egg itself, Mohamara began to pull on the individual bonds to find where the tangles originated so he could pull them apart.  As he did, he found himself reliving his own memories more often than not for each knot he undid.

 

That didn’t make sense -- why would the tangles in an unborn god bring out his memories?  Each one was different than what he knew had actually happened as well.  The sabre cat had only taken his tail -- but the tangles remembered being devoured alive.  He had escaped the Thalmor in Markarth, but the tangles remembered torture at their hands. 

 

“Something’s fucky in the state of Orsinium,” Mohamara said while he tried to piece together what these tangles really were.

 

He completely missed Marcurio dive-bombing him away from the golem until they hit the muddy shore.  This surprised Mohamara because Marcurio had never tackled him, nor purposefully got the velvet clothes he painstakingly made for Mohamara messy before.

 

“The egg is a trap,” Marcurio said while he was on top of Mohamara.  “Don’t physically touch it -- it will suck you in and dissolve you into itself -- apparently Sheogorath’s done that with different versions of you created by Dragon Breaks.”

 

Mohamara blinked once, twice, three times, all while he tried to ignore the mud in his fur and clothes.  His position, on his back with the Imperial on top of him, gave him a slightly obscured view of the battle on the mountain.  Meridia’s armor and the Thalmor witch were still fighting evenly. 

 

“First of all,” Mohamara started while he flicked the mud off his ears.  “How do you know that?  Second of all, I appreciate you coming to help me -- but this feels _super_ gross, could you get off of me?”

 

Marcurio didn’t do so, instead, he set his expression in stone.  “Sheogorath killed you once.”  All the noise from the battle on the mountain faded in that instance.  “Because I convinced you to elope.  He somehow has the power to rewind time, and he made me remember him killing you so that I wouldn’t defy him again.”

 

The two stayed like that, following the admission.  Marcurio had eyes only for Mohamara, while Mohamara spaced out in his attempt to comprehend what had just been revealed.  The pink tojay then sighed and tried to relax despite the mud.  “Alright.  Well,” he shrugged, “I kinda knew he had it in him to kill me since he tried to eat me more than once.  Add it onto the pile of parental problems we’ve got to deal with.”

 

Marcurio seemed baffled by Mohamara’s complete nonchalance on the subject.  He moved enough for the muddy cat to sit up, and had an ‘explain, now’ sort of expression on his face.

 

When the pink cat could sit up again he began to use Alteration to convert the mud into dust so it would easily come out of his fur and clothes -- the same for Marcurio’s outfit.  “I’m _done_ with letting them do things to hurt me.   Yagraz and I had a talk about it.”  For the god of kindness, he pulled off a pretty cruel smirk.  “That’s why we’re going to banish Meridia’s armor, remember?  We’ll just banish Sheogorath too so he can’t pull anything like this again.”

 

“I… kinda expected this to be more torn up over this,” the Imperial admitted.  However, his surprise was short-lived as he leaned down to push their foreheads together.  “But I love how quickly you alter the plan to incorporate vengeance.”

 

While they had their moment, the golem had noticed them and crouched down to watch them.  When they both turned to see it watch them with gemstone eyes, Mohamara enthusiastically waved.  A moment later, with greater hesitation, the Imperial joined in the wave.  Akulakhan mimicked the gesture.

 

“I can keep the big guy occupied until the family shows up,” Mohamara said while he stood and dusted the mud that covered Marcurio.  “And I promise to wait for backup this time.”  He then passed Marcurio his micro-slate.  “Grab a still-life of their faces when you do it to ‘em, Yagraz is going to grab one of Sheogorath when she hits him with that super Shout.”  And he finished his second pep talk with his own forehead bump action.  “And remember that you need to have fun with this, or it might not work.”

 

Moments later, when Marcurio had become a gust of wind to ascend faster, Mohamara floated over to the golem once more.  Akulakhan stood up straight and extended a finger for the pink cat to perch on like a bird.

 

“Want to meet my sisters, big guy?”  When Akulakhan nodded, Mohamara cleared his throat and did a series of ‘mii’s to warm up.  In moments, Auri-El stood on the golem’s finger, where his Dwemer metal fangs caught the sunlight.  “W hope you like Dwemer music, cause We’ve really enjoyed this one We heard from a metal cube.”  The cat, as if mimicking a songbird for a princess of impossible size, began to sing.  “ _Rastsvetali iabolni i grushi, poplyli tumany nad rekoj…_ ”

 

Meanwhile, in Oblivion, a cascade of noise began to rise from the Soul Cairn.  In the Aurbis, the body of Anui-El whose soul was Auri-El, one could Shout at the world and change it.  Those who knew the music of creation could become architects of tones and build reality out of a song.  Heat and cold, solid and liquid, light and darkness -- all of these were notes.  All bound up in a sphere brought online in stages.  Sound, then Tone, and then Melody -- the sphere of _Song_.

 

In the sphere chamber, the three mnemonic control rods -- Sun, Blood, and Dragon -- were pushed together to meet in the middle.  They formed the spokes of a wheel, with the five active spheres between them.  An empty space lay between Sun and Dragon, where the last sphere would be activated.

 

But back in Mundus, the singing cat was the signal for a mass migration.  On a castle three miles off the coast of Haafingar, a lone tower stood out of the ruins of a castle.  All in all, it was perfectly stable and structurally sound.  But that changed when a mass of small winged women bigger than most clouds began to pour from the tower.  The roof was torn off and cast aside, walls were torn down, and the debris landed on an armored man who had crawled from the rubble below.

 

The cloud of small women danced through the air and headed southeast.  They could grow even smaller as they wished, to move around the minute pieces of air that pushed against birds as they flew.  This allowed them to fly faster than Mundus wished.  However, the large minotaur that they carried with them was still subject to Mundus’ retaliation.

 

“Ack!  Cold!  We’re moving too fast!  Would you stop going up and down so drastically -- you’re going to somehow give me the bends if you keep it up, I can just tell.  _Lookoutforthatflockofgeese--_ ”

 

He did not have as pleasant a flight as his sisters, needless to say.

 

However, soon enough they were in the heart of Skyrim, and they found a singing cat.  How peculiar!  Hundreds of thousands of tiny women swarmed around Akulakhan, but the golem seemed delighted by the sight of them.  To something so large, they resembled butterflies of so many pretty colors!  He particularly liked the big, minotaur-shaped, bird -- for of course it was a bird as it was covered in feathers.

 

“We are glad to see you have arrived,” Auri-El said once the song concluded.  He gestured to the golem.  “This is Akulakhan, it appears to love flowers and butterflies.  Would those of you in a floral mood mind helping it see some of the most beautiful flowers?”

 

Immediately the throng of pixies surged to life, half stayed to float around while the other flew into Akulakhan’s face.  Each pixie showed the golem a flower she had summoned -- some had based their entire outfit around the flowers they showed off.

 

“This is a daffodil!  Aren’t they droopy?”  “Hey, look, this is flax, you can make clothes from this!”  “This is a fire lily -- the nectar is flammable!”  “And this is a water orchid!  I think you’re supposed to drink them?  Why else would they have water in their name?”  “This is blisterwort!  It grows in caves!”   “You silly bitch, that’s a mushroom, not a flower -- hey!  No hitting!”

 

Around that time, one of the pixies discovered that Akulakhan was made of sediment-rich mudstone.  She then had the bright idea to plant a flower in Akulakhan itself.  Immediately the flower began to grow, and this was noticed by the rest of the flock.  In seconds, Akulakhan’s arms and upper body were covered in flowers and one species of mushroom.

 

The world shuddered with a quaking sound after Akulakhan looked at its flowery self.  Like an excited child, the hundred-foot statue bounced up and down on its feet in an expression of joy.

 

“Hey, goose-bull-man,” Auri-El commented as he floated alongside his brother.  “Sheogorath’s trapped the egg, so I can’t get it out.  What’re the odds he’s set it so the first et’Ada to touch it gets absorbed?”

 

Morihaus pointedly ruffled his little brother’s blue fur as much as he possibly could in retaliation for the ‘goose’ comment.  “Pretty damn likely, all things considered.”  He put his chin in the crux of his pointer and thumb, to think.  Minutes later the minotaur’s expression grew positively malevolent.  “It’d be pretty poetic if we could put Sheogorath in there, but I think that’d count as abuse to this thing even though it’s not born yet.”

 

“This one concurs,” Orchendor said once the green-shifting had completed.  “He thinks that Sheogorath has earned that temporary death, but the egg has done nothing to deserve being an instrument of murder.”

 

“Yeah.  I mean technically, it has already, but -- why are you green?”  The man-bull turned and was clearly confused by the cat’s color change.  “Wait, was that racist, is this a Khajiit thing?  I thought the prismatic Khajiit were killed off by the Thrassian Plague.”  As brothers were obligated to do, he immediately started to ruffle the green cat’s fur too.

 

Orchendor’s eyebrow just kept going up, and up, until it threatened to lift away from his skull altogether.  “This one is different aspect -- he switches between them to learn how and when is appropriate, like kitten learning to walk.”

 

“Oh, sorry.  I don’t have aspects, so I didn’t know.”  There was some awkward silence between them while they waited for the other parts of the plan to work or fail so that they could move on to the final part.  “So… after all this, you’re getting married right?  Your birthday’s in a few days, is that when it’s going to happen?”

 

Orchendor shook his head and spread his hands out.  “The Imperial wants Khajiit to see a face sculptor to get his hands and feet fixed -- wedding will happen after recovery period passes.  Which reminds this one -- yes, you are invited.  Same with your mom, though Khajiit doesn’t know if she wants to spend time with his dad.”

 

Morihaus scratched his horns and smiled awkwardly.  “Don’t worry, she knows how Sheogorath is.  He’s my dad too.”

 

Orchendor blinked, stunned.  The three-quarters of a million sisters in the air blinked.  Akulakhan poked at a rose bush that grew out of its elbow.

 

“Khajiit doesn’t know how to feel about Sheogorath having extra-marital affairs with his mother’s wife.  It seems like one more thing that Skooma Cat just did without considering consequences.”

 

“Where is he, anyway?”

 

At that precise moment a warbling, cascading scream split the air apart and sent a ripple across the surface of the lake.

 

“Khajiit guesses Sheogorath is in general that-a-way direction.”

 

\--

 

Sheogorath had tried to make jokes.  He had tried to be _cute_.  Yagraz had no time for his bullshit.  She was one of Malacath’s Children -- those who cried out for vengeance against those that had wronged them and their family.  Short stuff couldn’t beat Sheogorath in a fight -- Slick would try but the Daedra was canny.  She and Miraak picked up on that after Volendrung caved his head in.

 

The decapitated Sheogorath moved like his head was still in one piece -- his mouth even made some smart alec remark.  But when Miraak and Yagraz charged it again they were both thrown off by how easily Sheogorath _dodged_ them.  They were both armed with artifacts of Princes, so perhaps Sheogorath could be harmed by them -- but Mora hadn’t been.  At least, not enough to dodge.

 

The Mad God toyed with them, clearly, so Yagraz signaled to Miraak.  “Occupy him for a moment!”

 

Miraak, with knowledge from Mora’s library, knew how to occupy the Mad God’s complete and undivided attention.  The First Dragonborn sang a cheesy song from the Shivering Isles about New Sheoth.  But he did so _in the proper key_.

 

The Mad God stopped his merry jig and grew a new head, he was so enraged.  He walked along the surface of the water to the shore where Yagraz and Miraak stood.  His flesh and clothes distorted like a cat’s hackles while still seemingly human.  “What you’re doing there… you’re not doin’ it right, sonny.  You’re supposed to sing it in all in soprano clef, but that’s _clearly_ treble.”  Sheogorath pinched his fingers together and advanced on the Dragonborn with eerie speed.

 

Miraak drew him away from Yagraz so she could line up the shot.  Sheogorath was the god of music -- they wanted him at least stunned from his mortal form’s destruction to use the Thu’um on him.  The First Dragonborn skated across the surface of the water through the Whirlwind Sprint Shout and looked back to see if Sheogorath had pursued him.

 

The Mad God loomed over his shoulder as if he had been there the whole time.  With inhuman strength, the Prince wrangled Miraak into facing him and began to squeeze either side of the Nord’s head.  “Let me see, a bit of a narrower jaw might just fix that clef problem you have….”

 

While this all went on, Yagraz stilled herself.  Like Malacath had taught her, she listened for the faceted noises that were the passage of time.  With Volendrung she shattered the seamless melody and created a region of anti-noise.  It was like a tear in the air, through which she saw Cyrodiil.

 

There was an archway made of three faces and a cathay Khajiit nearby.  She stepped from the archway, dressed in many layers of black robes as if she was in dire need to be somewhere.

 

Yagraz only knew her name -- S’fara -- and that the woman was the mortal who acted as Sheogorath’s vessel from the Third Era onwards.  The Orc hero longed to crush her to death with Volendrung -- but the hammer wouldn’t rise for her to throw it.  “Guess I gotta see if my tomahawk skills have gone to shit…”  She took her skyforge steel ax from her belt and lined up the shot.  The Break in the Dragon began to close rapidly -- she would only get one chance.

 

The ax was thrown and the portal closed.

 

Miraak began to fear that Sheogorath would kill him before their plan could move forward -- but suddenly the Mad God let loose a horrible noise.  The First Dragonborn was let go and launched through the air by the shockwave Sheogorath emitted from his hideous wailing cry.

 

The Mad God reached behind him to try and get between his shoulder blades -- where a time-worn ax suddenly stuck out dead center.  His vessel had been hit directly in the spine.

 

Yagraz cursed and took up Volendrung again.  “Debilitating, but not lethal.  Shit.”

 

Sheogorath’s face was streaked with inky black blood that poured from his eyes, ears, and mouth against the force of gravity while he grabbed the haft of the ax and yanked it free.  “Ya know, I knew it was coming,”  he said while he examined the item and then threw it aside.  “But even so, that hurt like hell.”  The ax he had discarded spun through the air toward Whiterun, where it breezed past the balcony of Dragonsreach palace and cut off the beards of every man who had assembled there to watch the spectacle.  Sheogorath actually seemed winded -- he leaned forward and put his hands on his knees.  “Oof, that hurt almost as bad as that time I got into a limbo competition with one of those snake-people.”  He looked up and waited for a minute before he narrowed his eyes.  “That’s it?  That was what you had planned?  Ax me a question, and what?  I leave out of the goodness o’ me heart?”

 

“Just waiting for tetanus to kick in,” Yagraz said to him.  She smirked when Sheogorath’s eyes widened visibly despite the distance between them.  “Made sure to get some rust on my ax before I threw it.  When’s the last time you got vaccinated?”

 

The Mad God’s limbs began to convulsively spasm.  Breaking bones and twisted cartilage filled the air with snaps, crackles, and pops.  Sheogorath opened his mouth to speak, but his jaw slammed shut with such force it broke his teeth.  “Okay,” he growled around his forcibly clenched jaws, “I admit, that was really clever -- getting my vessel infected like that.”

 

“Thanks, I put a couple of days of thought into it.”  Now was the time.  Sheogorath was weak, his vessel had begun to twist and break itself from the strength of the disease -- but it would not stay that way for long.  The new Shout -- crafted specifically for the Mad God, would see its use.

 

_”Bok!”_   Age.  Not bound to time, the sum total of an entity’s existence.  _”Siiv!”_   A verb that meant to find, to gain, to acquire.  _”Onikaan!”_   Wisdom, insight, inner peace.  Miraak and Yagraz had decided to name the Shout Reality Check -- for it forced the target to experience their age and reflect on their actions in a mature, wise, way.  The three Words combined to take the shape of a white-gold mass of energy that drilled through the air toward Sheogorath.

 

When the mass hit him, Sheogorath’s tetanus-locked jaw broke itself as he forced it open to scream.  The Prince of Madness writhed, his skin seemed to boil, and his white eyes burst into flames.  It was a couple of minutes of agonized noise before the Daedra could speak.  “What… have you done to me?”  Many voices were overlaid on top of each other when the Mad God spoke.  “This isn’t… what have _you done_ to me?!”

 

Yagraz smirked.  The veneer of superiority and untouchability had finally left Sheogorath.  What he experienced wasn’t just isolated to his vessel -- it would spread to his core across the barrier in the Shivering Isles.  “Oh, just something to help you grow the fuck up and act like an adult.”  She casually leaned on Volendrung while she watched, certain that Malacath looked upon this development with joy in his heart.

 

Meanwhile, in the Ashpit, Malacath’s manifestation sat on a long couch in a fluffy robe and slippers shaped like monster paws.  He ate from a bucket of popped corn kernels and watched a program on his scrying orb.  “No, Stands-in-Wonder,”  The Prince of Vengeance called out to the character on the orb, “she has a knife!”

 

Sheogorath’s vessel began to wither.  His already pale skin became ashen, his Nordly figure eroded under the strain of age.  The Prince of Madness watched his hands shrivel up, and weakly twitch, and soon after crumble into powder.  He looked up at Yagraz, as his face became gaunt -- his eyes had long been gone and left only burned holes.  “I’ll get you for this, mortal.”

 

“Maybe,” she shrugged, “but my money’s on you being out of commission for a long, _long_ time.”  Her vision shifted to a dark mass that covered Sheogorath in shadow.  “Particularly if he has something to say about it.”

 

\--

 

Elenwen and Meridia’s armor were no longer equally matched -- Elenwen had taken the advantage and pressed it.  The radiant Thalmor witch grinned like a madwoman as she slammed the titanic Daedric construct into the Throat of the World repeatedly.  She thought she’d won.

 

And that made it easy for Marcurio to sneak up on her.  While she gloated to the battered and broken armor, the thief-mage stole up behind her and shifted his shape.

 

“Emissary,” he spoke in the shape of Ondolemar, with the man’s voice borrowed by his stalhrim whistle, “the golem is damaged.  I require more energy to repair it and get it moving.”

 

“Here,” she said, without turning, and held the staff out.  “Our victory is assured now -- with Sheogorath’s protection and the strength of true gods.  Would you care to watch as I destroy this shard of a weak Prince?”  While she held the staff, she gathered an enormous amount of divine energy into her other hand, perhaps to obliterate Meridia’s armor outright.

 

A terrible wail shook through the air.  It followed a shockwave that shook the snow from the mountain and sent Meridia’s armor sliding down to the lake below.  Elenwen and the disguised Marcurio were tossed about for a second by the wave before Marcurio attacked.

 

He abandoned his disguise and made his fingers combine into a curved steel blade that he used to lop off Elenwen’s hand that still held a burning mass of divine energy.  The amputated hand fell like a comet into the water below and seemed to explode after it passed below the surface.

 

Stunned, and momentarily betrayed, Elenwen looked at her stump.   Divine energy from the staff began to automatically heal her wounds.  “Should have remembered.”  Sunna’rah brightened in her hand as she brandished it at Marcurio.  “Gloat when your enemies are dead, not before!”  A bolt of divine energy sailed from the hollow point of the staff -- which Marcurio moved around as he became a being of smoke.

 

When he had closed the gap, one hand grabbed Sunna’rah while he became an Imperial of sculpted ebony.  As it turned out being kicked in the chest by living ebony did not enable one to grip onto magical staves.  Without the divine energy in Sunna’rah, Elenwen couldn’t fly.  Marcurio watched her fall, hundreds of feet still until she hit the water, and plotted her trajectory.  He had to remind himself he couldn’t murder her -- she was still ambassador to the Dominion and that would lead to war.  But in his mind, he imagined a spear of ice that caught her as she fell and would give her some additional suffering before she hit the water.

 

He had to be satisfied with the distant splash that was Elenwen as she struck the lake.  He had to make do with the fact that her body wouldn’t be found, perhaps ever.  He had to make do with the fact that she would be remembered as a traitor, a fool, and how severely she damaged the Dominion’s reputation.

 

Perhaps it was Mohamara’s influence, but he found that combination an acceptable trade for direct murder.

 

\--

 

Two explosions of golden light signaled Vyrthur and Orthorn’s success in their missions.  The divine energy that they had possessed had been released to saturate White Lake alongside Elenwen’s.  This divine energy sought release and touched the memories of the water.  Fish, plants, and mudcrabs suddenly appeared in the waters as if they had always been there.

 

Ancano was lucky, as it turned out.  He had been distracted from his own healing for so long that when he finally burst out laughing from the game he played, he died quietly.  Orthorn watched as the Thalmor’s amusement faded, and the internal injuries he’d neglected rapidly caught up to him.

 

“I don’t know what Daedra you served,” Orthorn said while he briefly touched the cadaver.  A touch of Stoneflesh weighed down the Thalmor’s corpse so it would sink below the water.  “But you are dead, and the dead should be mourned.  I will mourn you like you are mine because someone must.”

 

Who would have thought a simple game of “Uriel Five” would cause the Thalmor to laugh?

 

With his part done, Orthorn swam toward the ice sheet that Vyrthur had brought with him.  There he found the Snow Elf on his knees next to the other Thalmor male who lay on his back.  While he climbed up onto the ice, he managed to catch the tail end of their conversation.

 

“...all of this is a dream?”  The Thalmor asked, dismayed.

 

Vyrthur nodded.  “And like a dream, it seems so vividly real, doesn’t it?  You can choose to forget the dream if you wish, but it looks like your dream is ending.  You’re going to wake up.”  The Snow Elf gestured to the Thalmor’s body.

 

As Orthorn approached, he saw the Thalmor’s body become translucent.  As if the Mer were an illusion, he faded visibly into nothing.  It was somehow more disturbing than Ancano’s death had been.

 

Suddenly desperate, the Thalmor grabbed Vyrthur’s arm and looked up at him.  “Who… who will I be, when I wake up?”

 

Orthorn couldn’t see Vyrhthur’s face, but he could hear the unusual softness in the vampire’s voice.  “For better, or for worse, you will be you.”

 

The Thalmor pleaded with Vyrthur with his eyes.  When the vampire’s reply didn’t change, and the fading had reached his torso, the fascist Altmer began to weep.  “But I _hate_ being me….”  He cried until there was nothing left of him except echoes.

 

With nothing left to kneel for, Vyrthur stood.  “Did yours force you to use the shield?”  The vampire barely turned his head to speak to Orthorn, perhaps he’d known the Pink Coat was there all along.

 

“No,” Orthorn replied.  “After I completed my task, the Master’s energy burst from him like a broken pipe.”

 

“Mine did the same.”  Vyrthur looked up and pointed toward the Daedric construct half in the lake.  “Soon the last part of the plan will see the Glister Witch banished from Mundus properly.”

 

Orthorn looked at the armor as well -- the head was dented, one of the gemstone eyes was shattered.  The wings were severely damaged, but functional.  The armor hadn’t moved for a long time, up until another body hit the water.

 

The remaining eye flared to life, and the construct struggled to stand.  Its one remaining arm reached out in the direction of the golem -- where the Master and a gathering of Pixies were.  It had taken all of two bumbling steps before it was stopped.

 

Othorn chewed on a chunk of ice that had broken off from the sheet while a comet seemed to streak down from the heavens.  That could only have been J’zargo, the Master’s minion, who had gathered fire from the border of Mundus and Aetherius to play out his part of the plan.  He tapped Vyrthur on the shoulder and turned his back on the scene.  “The Master said we can’t look at it from this close-up.”

 

The vampire grumbled and turned his back on the scene as well.  He did this just in time to watch a Nord elder in oversized clothes of purple and orange go sailing across the surface of the lake toward the golem on the far shore.  “I’m guessing that new Dragonborn you told me about was responsible for that?”  Vyrthur inspected his armored fingers, completely unperturbed by what had just happened.

 

Orthorn, similarly unbothered, looked over from whence the projectile man had come.  “Hmm.  Well, there looks to be Miraak, Yagraz, and some minotaur over there.  The minotaur’s rubbing his fist, so I guess he’s the one who punched Sheogorath like that.”

 

“He has a good punching arm.  We would do well not to be punched by him.”

 

“Iunno, it could be fun!”

 

“Gods above, you’re worse than that Giller person.”

 

\--

 

Mohamara watched while both his parents were effectively taken out of the picture for the immediate future.  Meridia’s armor had started to make an attempt to reach him and his sisters -- but Marcurio put that effort to rest with his part of the plan.

 

The tojay watched Marcurio use Mohamara’s divine energy to catch J’zargo, aflame from his trip to the edge of the world, and launch the Aedric construct directly into the armor’s back.  Supercharged thusly, the Servitor could use Mohamara’s Meridian amulet as a true sigil stone.  When Servitor met Daedric armor, a portal of Daedric fire opened up and both metal figures passed through.

 

Up next was Sheogorath, delivered into the same portal by Morihaus via a physical toss.

 

Mohamara whistled to get his sisters attention while they planted more flowers -- and blisterwort -- into Akulakhan’s body.  “I’m going to deal with mom and dad, can you guys take care of the egg situation without me?”

 

Three-quarters of a million thumbs up were his answer.

 

With the power of flight, Mohamara soared across the surface of White Lake and into the portal himself.  When he stepped out on the other side he was in a courtroom of prodigious size, the gallery full of minor Daedra.  Walls of rainbow-colored wood, curtains of water vapor anchored before windows in the shape of diamonds -- such fanciful construction could only be the work of Oblivion.

 

Sheogorath and Meridia in their human forms sat at the position of the defendants, with a bar of High Rock Spring soap wearing a tie was their legal counsel.  Mohamara moved through the gateway of subliminal thoughts to sit at the plaintiff's table alongside his representative, a Daedra in the shape of an Orc.  In the juror’s box were a fine assortment of cheeses all dressed in small outfits.

 

“All rise,” said a gray-robed bailiff announced, “for the honorable Judge Jyggalag.”

 

In strode jagged Jyggalag, static in his form, so Anuic that the waters of Oblivion boiled around him to create a layer of steam around his body.  The Prince of Order, made of chrome metal, sat down on the judge’s throne with a ponderous thud.  The spikes on his head caught the light and redirected it to shine directly in Sheogorath’s eyes.  “Bailiff,” the dethroned, yet ironically throned, Prince ordered, “read the charges.”

 

While Mohamara was in trial, his hostile takeover of the Soul Cairn neared completion.  The soul habitat of the original realm was finally pried from the wreckage and repairs could be made.  The original soul habitat looked incandescent when compared to the purple and blues of the Soul Cairn -- and after a quick compatibility check, it was determined that they couldn’t just transfer the pre-mythic formations into the Soul Cairn.  But they could manage both without much difficulty, as Sanguine did with his transfinite realms.

 

Thus the soul habitat was ejected from the Soul Cairn -- it appeared as an orb of light that floated from the whale-realm’s jaws and up toward Magnus.  While one realm floated, the other swam -- pieces of the skeletal whale iconography broke away while it too ascended to the surface of Magnus.

 

Inside the Soul Cairn, news began to feed into the protoform control room.  Mr. Moody was handed a notice from the reactor room -- good news at last.  The officer flipped a switch and pulled down a speaking crystal to prompt the inter-realm noisemaker for an announcement.  “Attention, all hands.  The power drain has been dealt with -- the reactor is clear for instrumentality.  Please complete your current task and get to your stations for immediate Solar Furnace activation.”

 

After the announcement, Mr. Pessimismy quickly approached Mr. Moody -- and narrowly avoided being crushed by their dragon patient who had briefly escaped the reassembly line.  When he got close, he held up his general issue slate to muffle his speech.  “Shouldn’t we do a stress test, first?  Maybe designate a Tower?”

 

“Yep,” Mr. Moody said, confident as he looked over the tangled mess of pipes, tubes, and components.

 

“So why are we leaping right to instrumentality?”

 

Mr. Moody struck a pose, and in so doing pointed to Mr. Reflectiony’s workstation -- it was far behind the others as Mr. Reflectiony hadn’t fully recovered yet.  “Because our impulse control hasn’t been installed yet!”

 

Back in the courtroom, things were not going well for the defendants.  What had started as an attempt to take the sting out of Meridia’s negligence charge by way of her temple’s foster care system turned into an absolute disaster on Sheogorath’s side.  This came to a head when the Oblivion surveillance handage finished playing through a lovely pair of rainbow women as they devolved into severe dementia over the course of an afternoon.

 

For Mohamara it was a horrible experience that marked the very last time he was put with a foster family.  For Sheogorath, seemingly, it was a charming afternoon stroll.  The event worsened the case of Meridia’s negligence as the victims had been both Meridian -- entitled to her protection, which never came.

 

Jyggalag banged the gavel stone to silence the gallery when they formed their words into soft fruits to fling at Meridia and Sheogorath -- confident that neither Prince would remember them.  “The time for fruit flinging is over and done with -- please confine further projectiles to soft vegetables and berries.  And a reminder for the smartass in the back, ferns are strictly prohibited.”  His hollow eyes looked upon the fruited defendants, impassive.  “The evidence you’ve offered has only strengthened the plaintiff’s position.  Have you additional evidence?”

 

Meridia had her bald head in her hands while Sheogorath flipped through a notebook of cheese slices with writing upon them.

 

“Hold on,” the Mad God said, “I think I have something from an alternate timeline version of the boy to help us, Meri-pants.”  He looked excited as he flipped to one slice of cheese, but quickly his excitement melted.  “Oh wait, this version was eaten alive by whales trying to get your beacon back.  Does that help us any?”

 

The defendant’s bar of soap attorney slid across the desk in admittance that the defense rested.

 

Jyggalag nodded his spikey head and regarded the courtroom as a whole.  “The time has come for closing arguments.  Mr. the Clankiller, you may proceed.”

 

“Thank you, your honor,”  the Orc shaped Daedra nodded and stood from the plaintiff’s table.  “Firm and soft cheeses of the jury, my client is not asking much -- just an apology.  He is a god of great tautological means in his own right….”

 

Mohamara rested his head in the palm of one hand propped up on the table.  This had not gone how he wanted -- he thought they would lie and give him a meaningless apology, then they could part ways for a while.  But they couldn’t even manage that -- they’d fought to the last to remain in the right.  Meridia, he thought, would be better as she shared the sphere of Kindness with Mohamara.

 

Kindness wasn’t enough to make a bad mother good, as it turned out.

 

Back in the Soul Cairn, dozens of subordinate functions affixed safety vests and lifelines to themselves, to Soul Cairn natives, and to their guests as the time for instrumentality drew near.  The relevant switches had been thrown ahead of schedule, and the control rods already began to meet at their designated axis of rotation while the orbiting spheres lit up with divine light.

 

All at once a spasm went through the major functions.  They froze in the midst of their duties, then immediately returned to them with a degree of panic.  Mr. Moody was the hardest hit by this as he looked over readouts from the reactor and the progress bar to instrumentality.  A sudden bit of movement drew his eyes up to Mr. Reflectiony’s work area, where the injured officer stood with bandages over most of his face and one arm in a sling.  The other arm was used to ask Mr. Moody how many fingers Mr. Reflectiony held up.

 

Impulse control and general reflection functions had been restored.  Which of course led to a panic among the officers as there had been no stress tests, they had designated no Tower of their own, and they didn’t have a sixth sphere in place yet.  They hadn’t even thought of the technical problems that would come from having the Sun as a control rod and a possible sphere!

 

Mr. Moody was saved when a call came in from Tower support, Mr. Imaginationy’s department.

 

“Alright, we screwed up big time,” the Imaginative officer said through the slate.

 

Mr. Moody looked on as the panic began to spread to some of the subordinate functions.  “I can see that.”

 

“I had my boys writing activation protocols for incomplete Towers, and we managed to get one together.  We did some mental gymnastics to make it happen -- don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, just get the boss to sign off on the document I’m sending.”  Mr. Imaginationy’s call ended abruptly, and the space on Mr. Moody’s slate was soon replaced with a file.

 

Mr. Moody skimmed the document and found it made his head hurt, which in turn made all the subordinate functions heads hurt.  To get the problem out of his head, he hastily forwarded it up the chain of command and hoped nobody would think to blame him for the situation.  Fortunately, most of the people in the position to cast blame, cast it on their father.

 

Mohamara sat through the defense’s closing argument and his representative’s rebuttal in a mostly unchanged position of bored dissatisfaction.  In a shower of pink sparks, a slate in the style of the Telvanni Impressionism, which had been used for Mohamara’s subordinate functions, appeared on the table with a notification.  He ignored the arguments to give it a once over.

 

There was some confusing bit about him being the temporary stone for a Tower until it was switched to the solar grid -- he needed to be invested in the world before he could create the solar grid.  According to the report, he was already connected to the Tower due to time fuckery, which Akatosh had filed an official injunction over.  Time was of the essence, per his major functions’ notations at the end, so the pink tojay just signed his name at the bottom to get it over with.

 

The slate vanished in a shower of pink sparks just as Mohamara’s representative returned from his rebuttal statement.  “Alright,” the Orc shaped Daedra said.  “That soap had them confused for a moment, but I think I got them back on our side.”

 

Jyggalag banged the gavel stone again to silence the room.  “Firm and soft cheeses of the jury,” he said while he turned to look upon them.  “How do you find?”

 

The bailiff went to each cheese and stuck them with a fork, then placed them into a fondue pot.  The gallery waited with bated breath as the cheeses melted together.  As the last cheese liquified, a chunk of bread was dipped in via a long-stemmed fork.  That cheesy bread was then given to Jyggalag, who stuck it through the slats in his helmet.

 

After a moment of texture consideration, chewing, and aftertaste analysis, the Prince of Order banged his gavel stone again.  “The jury finds in favor of the plaintiff.  This court awards the requested damages -- a formal apology -- along with a sum of power from each parent as punitive damages.  Court is dismissed.”  With Jyggalag’s proclamation, the courtroom began to dissolve, as it was no longer needed.

 

“I gave it my best shot, grandma,” Mohamara muttered to himself as he stood and started to walk to the door.  “Thanks, Mr. the Clankiller -- I hope to have Yagraz back on the track to Ashpit soon with my brother’s help.”

 

“That’s all Lord Malacath asks, Mr. Ahramani,” the Orc shaped Daedra said while he gathered up his papers.

 

At the threshold, where lesser Daedra marched from the courtroom and gossiped, Mohamara paused to look back at the defendant’s table.  Meridia and Sheogorath were still there -- even as it ceased to exist.  Meridia turned to look at the cat, but she couldn’t hold his gaze for long.  “No matter what,” he said to himself, “I will be better to them than you were to me.”  Then he left and looked back no more.

 

\--

 

The sugar desert had passed through the surface of Magnus uninhibited.  As an Aetherial Realm, it would naturally have floated there.  The Soul Cairn, freed of the predatory iconography, took the shape of an unassuming sphere as the sugar desert did.

 

Within the working structures of the Soul Cairn, all who could be secured were secured.  The one exception was the soul of a particularly ornery dragon who wanted to eat everything.  Even Mr. Moody had his lifeline secured like all the functions.  It had enough give to where he could make another announcement, as instrumentality drew closer.  “Alright, boys, girls, and those of unspecified or non-applicable gender -- the process is automated at this point!  Hold on, don’t do anything Sheogorath would want us to do, and we’ll come out of this with minimal damage!”

 

Outside, the two soul habitats pressed into the surface of Magnus, and through the liminal barrier, each other.  But Magnus was a coin with three sides -- that which opened to Aetherius, that which opened to Oblivion, and that which opened to the Mundus.  The pressure from the two sides forced expansion in the third.

 

While all of that cool shit was going down, the Mundus side of Magnus began to distend.  Due to the considerable distance, this was not quite visible at first.  Eventually, the curvature caused some shift in the light so that people with telescopes made the incredibly poor decision to look directly at the sun and realize their error seconds later.  The sun no longer was a hole in the outer layer of the world -- it was a hemisphere.

 

Back in the Tower support room, those monitoring the inactive Towers waited on bated breath for one worker to complete his task.  All of their work in upgrading the Towers from the Stone and Thief system to the solar grid system would be worthless if they could not bring their own Tower online in time.

 

All seemed to be going well until the subordinate function stopped and looked around frantically.  “It needs a designation -- what do I do?”

 

Everyone looked to Mr. Imaginationy who in turn looked at the looking glass which displayed their Tower-to-be, Akulakhan covered in plant life -- with hair of wisteria lilac, shoulders covered in flowers and fungi -- almost to the point where the Dwemer metal around its head and torso was not immediately visible.  “Designate it Moss-Agate -- two words like its precursor, and attuned to Life in particular.”  The officer wasn’t at all certain of his decision, but he had to make one.  That’s what he’d been put in charge for.

 

With a few minutes of typing, the eight Towers of Tamriel became nine.  Akulakhan, Moss Tower, Moss-Agate, stood as an echo of Walk-Brass whose narrative was of a people who longed to be gods.  Akulakhan stood in refutation of that narrative -- and was given the narrative of a people who wished to be happy.  Immediately the lights in the Soul Cairn powered by the reactor dimmed and shuddered.  Power streamed from the five spheres to the hub of the wheel, and out through the gap to flow into Akulakhan -- into the World.

 

\--

 

As Mohamara stepped out through the portal to Oblivion, the sun emerged as a sphere from the hole that had been Magnus.  The portal closed behind him, and so to did the empty space the sun had occupied.  There was no fanfare as Eight became Nine.  Mohamara focused first on fishing J’zargo from the lake, as the Servitor was too heavy to float, then rejoined his friends, and siblings.  His family.

 

The Egg of Magnus mirrored the sun, it left Akulakhan and left empty space that filled itself shortly thereafter.

 

There was much hugging as the days passed, following the failed toppling of Snow-Throat.  Mohamara hugged each and every one of his sisters before they left for their own homes in Oblivion -- he would see them again at his wedding, there were no doubts.  Morihaus stayed at his mother’s mountain to help her Greybeards rebuild, but he made sure to ruffle his pink brother’s fur up as he had the blue and green aspects first.

 

Vyrthur hugged his god goodbye and accepted the offer for a cure of the illness that had caused their schism -- to be born again.  They would see each other again, in different lives, with different names, as friends, not master and servant.

 

Yagraz took Miraak to Whiterun to meet her daughter, and prepare for the wedding.  She grinned like a crocodile while she and Mohamara hugged their to be short-lived goodbyes.  He and Marcurio joined in the friend-obligated threats against Miraak in the vein of ‘if you don’t respect her, we will rip your skin off’.

 

Marcurio, Orthorn, and Mohamara departed back to the east of Skyrim -- though Marcurio insisted they go to Riften first.  In the Imperial’s mind, it was time to get Mohamara’s claws back.

 

One by one, the Towers that the Thalmor had chopped down came back.  Red Mountain ceased her endless ash-spewing, and the earthquakes that had shaken Morrowind for centuries came to an end.  It would not offset the further hardship they would endure, but it would save lives that otherwise would be lost.

 

The White-Gold Tower was the next to awaken again -- and when it did, fireworks of unknowable providence were launched in celebration.  The residents of the Imperial City were glad for the show but had no idea as to the reason.  It was a moment of merriment when there had been no cause -- in short, frivolity.  After White-Gold, the Crystal Tower made a return.  Alinor’s residents went to sleep one day, and on the morrow, the Crystal Tower stood again where it had been knocked down.  The Thalmor naturally claimed credit, but it mattered little whom had been the cause, the long-lived people had a piece of their past returned to them.

 

Green-Sap’s return was part of a greater return of Valenwood’s forests, that had been cleared per Aldmeri decree.  The graht-oak trees and lesser plants sprung up from the soil and tore apart Dominion fortifications and colonization sites where they rightfully deserved to stand.  Orichalc returned with the most visible fanfare -- as scores of fishermen returned to port one day with news of islands that had risen from the ocean before their very eyes.

 

Walk-Brass came back to the world unnoticed, as it was sunk beneath the waves.  Free for the first time, the Numidium walked off into the ocean to bother, and be bothered by no one anymore.  Then came the non-Tamrielic Towers.  Akulakhan went wherever there were flowers or beautiful things, but what it considered beautiful seemed to change as it traveled, and so too did the foliage that grew upon it.

 

The Thalmor had aimed to shake the pillars of heaven, and in so doing made them stronger.  Let all who would tear down the World see the folly in this.

 

\--

 

Marcurio was both annoyed with his husband’s willingness to submit to Nibanese tradition, and happy with it at the same time.  It was an old belief that the newlyweds should not see each other in their wedding attire until the time of the ceremony.  There were older traditions, such as ritualistically taking the bridal equivalent from their birth family to have them in the groom’s own, but Marcurio opted to not follow that one.  The tradition was also surprisingly lenient -- the Imperial set up screens through half of their chambers so that they could still chat while they prepared.

 

The Imperial glanced through the screen where he saw the Pink Coats Mohamara had brought with him to Riften from Winterhold attend to the cat’s appearance in silhouette.  Today would be the last day he had to look at the hideous wheelchair the cat had been confined to for his recovery period.  His gaze lingered on the mitten bandages that covered the cat’s hands and reflected on if it had been right to press for the corrective face sculpting.

 

Jode made her presence known by way of air walking to Marcurio’s half of the dressing room.  “Mario,” she greeted, happy in her vest, and sparkly hat.  “You and Momamama look pretty!”

 

She had obviously fished for a compliment, but Marcurio couldn’t _not_ give it to her.  He reached out with his recently manicured hand to scratch below the Big Moon’s chin.  “You look pretty too, baby girl.  Prettier than any of your aunties.  Just don’t ruin your outfit by going after the fish too soon.”

 

This set off a five minute ‘but dad’ ‘no’ go-between that Marcurio knew he had inflicted on his own father more than once.  Jode was better at it by dint of being cuter -- but Marcurio could distract himself with his makeup where Seneca only had wine.  Wine made one weak to parent-tricks.

 

“I’ve overheard a lot of the guests talking about us,” Mohamara commented once Jode had won the battle by a slim margin and went off to get her early fish.  “A lot of them seem to be in denial that I’m not a woman.  Adannna, am I really that effeminate?”

 

One of the shadows of the Pink Coats broke off her task to visibly hesitate before she resumed.  The Khajiiti woman sighed and clarified.  “Is most common for Khajiit women to be bald, Llorona.  And he has very… feminine cheekbones.  This one was not certain until she heard him speak.”

 

Marcurio could practically see the cat’s pout through the screen, and he was sure it was adorable.  “Are you feeling up to taking the bandages off yet?”  He watched the tojay’s shadow for a reaction while he stood up from his chair.

 

“Well, I have to get the sandals on at some point,” the cat replied.  “And _someone_ made sure to include detached sleeves that attach to rings, so I can’t skip out on that either.  So… yeah?”  Mohamara’s shadow held up his hands and the two Pink Coats began to unwrap the bandages.  “Ow, not so fast, you’re going to pull my fur out!”

 

Marcurio took his eyes off the scene to dress in his wedding ensemble.  Since the event was to also announce his position as the Emperor’s heir -- before the old man was poisoned later in the evening -- it had to be somewhat extravagant.  Previous emperors had favored the use of purples, deep blues, and furs, but Marcurio aimed to set himself apart from that which had come before.  He wore clothes in the colors of the Rift, of Autumn, in the style of the ancient Cyrods as he’d made Mohamara’s ensemble.  After he was done dressing, the bandage removal seemed to have completed as Mohamara’s hands were not mittens when Marcurio next looked at their shadows.

 

“Huh.  So I just flex a little and -- whoa!”  The cat held his hands away from him, evidently, he’d unsheathed his claws quicker than expected.  “That’s cool!  And it doesn’t hurt?  How do you trim them?”

 

“The outer layer of the claw breaks off, Master,” Adannna confirmed as she moved around the screen to help Marcurio affix his cloak.  “To put them back, just relax.  Is not so complicated.”

 

“I can just tell I’m going to wreck some sheets when I’m sleeping and these just slip out…”

 

Marcurio chuckled at the image and remembered how one of his sister’s cats would get their claws stuck sometimes.  It would be fun to see if Mohamara had the same event happen to him.  A more serious topic came to mind when Adannna used the Eye of Mohamara to pin the cloak in place.  He waited until she went back to Mohamara’s side to bring it up, however.  “You’re sure you don’t want to… make an announcement or something?  Your side of the family will show up, and I get the feeling they’d want you to get a… substantial following, as it were?”

 

The cat’s shadow shook his head.  “I’m okay with where I am.  And what would I do, hmm?”  He used his newly freed fingers to count off some reasons.  “I’m the god of family, everyone thinks Mara does that.  I’m a god of life, everyone thinks Meridia and Arkay do that.  I’m the god of kindness, but everyone associates that with Stendarr.  Song?  ‘Sheogorath’s the god of music, right?’  The sun?  ‘But that’s Magnus!’  Teaching?  ‘But Julianos has all these schools dedicated to him!’”  The cat put on a higher pitched voice for his hypothesized reply, it made Jone giggle to hear it.  Mohamara hastily left the wedding prep zone around his seat to lick Jone to let the tubby kitten know he was loved, then returned.  “And the ninth Divine?  There was recently a war about that.”  Mohamara’s shadow shook his head emphatically.  “Let everyone else in the family chase the worship of more and more people -- I’m okay with providing a service to make the world better.”

 

Marcurio, in the face of such humility, did as husbands ought to do.  Respect their wishes and plot legislation to legalize their religion.

 

The mood of the room changed when a huge person in armor made from bones burst in through the door with an Imperial girl in a green dress behind them.  “Yo, newlyweds,” said Yagraz as she made finger-wands to both of them on either side of the screen.  “Spitfire told me you two were still getting ready so I can by to make fun of the way Slick dressed you both, and so Lucy can see Jone.”  The armored Orc pointed at the cradle, and the Imperial girl positively zoomed over to it.

 

“Oh, Malacath’s manly mandible,” she said, in awe of the spotted kitten.  “He’s _the cutest cousin ever_.”

 

“You can hold him,” Mohamara said, “if you let Adannna show you how.”

 

While Lucy gushed, and Adannna showed the girl how to hold the kitten, Marcurio examined Yagraz in her bone armor.  After a moment’s inspection, he gathered it was _dragon_ bone armor.  An impressive set, but he knew it was not the Companion’s preferred style of armor.

 

“I thought you favored light armor,” he commented while he haughtily examined his perfumes for the perfect fragrance.  “Why the sudden switch to heavy?”

 

“Because, Slick, all the scales got used in making you two some wedding presents!”  The armored Orc thudded over to Marcurio, threw her arm over his shoulder, and shoved a scaly parcel into his arms.  “You’re lucky I didn’t let those Radiant Raiment girls go with the ‘dragonscale smallclothes’ idea.  What’s the point of making things from dragons if you don’t show it off?”

 

Marcurio couldn’t deny the accuracy of her sentiment and unfolded his parcel while she went to give Mohamara his.  It was a dragonscale overcoat, with a plethora of hidden pockets -- ideal for someone of Marcurio’s chosen profession.  “Hmm, functional, excellent craftsmanship, and plenty of room for enchantment to add on -- a splendid gift.”  He set it in the closet where his wedding clothes had been and returned to his previous task.  “What did she get you, love?”

 

“The tradition only counts for you seeing me in my wedding clothes, right?”  Mohamara called over the divider, and his shadow scurried over to where Jone’s cradle was.  “Because she got me something I’ve wanted since the moment this guy grew too heavy for me to carry physically.”  Moments later, before Marcurio could respond, Mohamara came around the divider in his smallclothes and wearing a dragonscale harness on his chest that allowed him to carry Jone inside.  The kitten was confused, but not upset at this development.

 

Marcurio stared for a second before he quickly whipped out his micro-slate and snapped a pictograph of the scene.  “I can’t wait to show that to the kids when they’re older,” he said with malicious glee.  His face split in a wide grin as the Khajiit realized what had happened.  “Hold on, I’m going to go show your sisters and your brother.”

 

“Wait!  No!  At least get a pic when I’m wearing trousers!”

 

But it was too late, as Marcurio had dashed through the door.  He knew Mohamara wouldn’t follow in just his smallclothes, so he languidly walked through the halls of Riftweald Manor -- a recent purchase -- and out to Riften’s streets.  The guests all had gathered at the temple of Mara not too far away, so Marcurio expected he could share the pictograph with most of Mohamara’s sisters before the cat could arrive to try and stop him.

 

As it happened, something else stopped him.

 

He saw, among the crowd of people from across the province and beyond, a familiar face who in turn saw him.  Seneca Tullius.  Marcurio was about to move on with his plan when his father handed his wine back to the server that had given it to him -- an unprecedented feat -- and rushed over.  It would be rude to run, or Marcurio would have sped up to avoid him.

 

“May I have some words with the groom?”  Seneca tried to play it off like he hadn’t rushed like everyone hadn’t _seen_ him rush.  “Please?”

 

That made Marcurio stop mid-stride.  General Seneca Tullius, ‘the Troubleshooter’, had said ‘please’?  Where other people could hear?  The rumors that would circulate could ruin Marcurio’s mother’s day for years to come.  He of course turned and gave the golden-armored general a curt nod and nothing else.

 

Rather than let the whole world know their personal business, Marcurio led the way to a chapel in the nearby graveyard.  Secretly it housed a back door to the Thieves Guild, so if he needed to escape Seneca’s idiocy, he could before the old man could react.  The groom cleaned off a section of the wall and promptly leaned on it.  “What do you have to say, Father?  Going to implore me to arrest the Guild once I’m Emperor?  Never have fun again for fear of political ramifications?  Have an affair to produce a Man for the Elder Council to be sure of their racial supremacy?”

 

Seneca looked around the chapel, down to his feet, and took a deep breath.  With the poise and grace expected of a general, he suddenly looked up and met Marcurio’s eyes.  “I’m sorry.”  Seneca held up a hand to forestall Marcurio’s questions.  “I was a bigot, an ignoramus, an imbecile, and a poor father not to see the signs when they first presented themselves.”  Clearly, Seneca wished he did not hold Marcurio’s gaze, but he did anyway.  “I shouldn’t have said those things to you, I shouldn’t have let your mother say those things to you.  And I shouldn’t have thrown you out of my house, then take umbrage with how you chose to live afterward.  I was wrong -- as a man, and a father.”  That was a lot of words to say all at once, so Seneca took a moment to breathe.  “I won’t ask for forgiveness I don’t think I deserve.  And if this is the last time we see each other, I’m okay with that.  You’re a fine young man, a son I can be proud of.  And…”  Seneca struggled with the next part of his admission visibly.  “I know you will be a better father than I was to you.  I know you will never make your children feel unwelcome and alone in their own home, as we did to you.  I say it again… I’m sorry.”

 

There was a long, awkward silence between them.  Marcurio’s expression of feigned disinterest did not change as he examined his father’s face for signs of lies.  Political lessons from his childhood came in handy still.

 

Seneca took this as an implicit rejection of the apology and turned to leave.  But he was stopped when Marcurio closed the gap and laid a hand on his father’s shoulder.

 

“I can’t forgive you and mother for all the things you said,” Marcurio admitted, no longer disgusted with his non-violent reaction.  “But I can start on the path to forgiveness.  Because I’ve seen parents far, far worse than you.  It offered me some… perspective, I guess.”  If Marcurio had Mohamara’s sense of affection, he would have hugged Seneca.  As it was, he simply patted the general’s shoulder.  “Apology accepted.”  His expression became far brighter, as Seneca visibly relaxed.  “Would you like to hear about your grandchildren?”

 

By the time Marcurio and Seneca finished their talks about the kittens, Mohamara found Marcurio and put a stop to the pictograph sharing.  Fortunately, he had thought to send it to Yagraz so the memory would be preserved for future use.

 

Without Sheogorath or Meridia in attendance, and with Seneca to reign in Marcurio’s mother, the wedding went so much better than either groom had hoped for.  After the newlyweds had shared their wine and stomped upon the glass, there was a toast held before the reception.

 

‘To being better today than who we were yesterday.  To pushing forward, despite hardship.  May we put happiness and love above being right.  And may we find in each other a family worth fighting for.’

 

**THE END**.

 

\---

"Oh, boo hoo hoo!  It's done!  It's over!  My wee baby boy is getting married and I'm stuck talking about boring _payment plans_ with Haskill and me wives.  Who's going to swing about from the chandelier if I'm not there?!  Well, probably that Cicero feller.  I quite like him, he reminds me of me! But wait, I've been told to hand this to y'all for your listening pleasure.  For some of you, it won't be able to just click on it -- you'll have to search 'Take on Me (Symphonic)'.  And no, don't ask how I pronounce the parenthesis with my mouth, you won't like the answer.  Anyway, [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=trqszNocEhI)'s your credit music."


End file.
